


A Divine Comedy

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anathema is a Badass, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Falling In Love, Good AUmens AU Festival, M/M, Stand Up Comedy, Teacher Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 47,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley was something of a rising star in the stand-up comedy world in the late 90s. These days, though, he mostly just snarls his way through open mic nights and Twitter take downs of terrible movies.Things all go a little pear-shaped when someone entirely unexpected makes his way through the doors of The 9th Circle Comedy Club.Welcome to A Divine Comedy, the Good Omens stand-up comedy AU!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 308
Kudos: 336
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. comedy tomorrow, tragedy tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the impossibly incredible [EveningStarcatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningStarcatcher/pseuds/EveningStarcatcher) and [freyjawriter24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24).
> 
> Thank you forever to the endless support and inspiration of the GO-Events Discord server.
> 
> (I don't yet know how sexy this fic is going to get overall, but please be prepared that there is some masturbation in this first chapter!)

_Saturday._

It was already well into the day when Anthony J. Crowley finally woke up. Sunlight streamed in through curtainless windows _(Fuck, he had to remember to get some fucking curtains),_ and birds chirped far too perkily just outside. 

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut tighter in an attempt to fight off the offending sunshine, but:

“Okay, I get it, FUCK,” he snarled to nothing. To no one. 

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open. Brought his palm up to his face to rub over them once before rolling over and grabbing his sunglasses off of his nightstand. He went ahead and slid them over his face despite the fact he was otherwise entirely naked in bed. 

He retrieved his mobile from the nightstand, and flicked immediately to Twitter where he’d stayed up far too late the night before live tweeting about some god awful movie that every other comic and their mother was joking about at present.

A smattering of measly hearts, one of which was from fucking _Hastur._ What was the point of supposed real-life friendship when there was validation from Internet strangers to be had? 

No retweets. No mentions. Hardly any love at all for @unhingedaj. Crowley flung his phone off to the side, and didn’t even wince at the sound of it colliding with the wall.

“Still fucking alive, then?” he asked out loud, acid dripping from his tongue.

No one answered.

“Right,” he responded to himself, groaning once and then beginning the horrible process of getting out of bed and starting another day.

Once he had dressed himself in his usual assortment of black and checked Twitter three or four more times, he bounded out of his flat, and out into the harsh light of day. His head throbbed and he grimaced behind his sunglasses.

“Coffee,” he muttered to himself.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, confirmed that his trusty notebook was indeed wedged in there, and walked off in the direction of the only decent bloody coffee shop in the neighborhood.

Strong word, decent. 

Crowley hissed instinctively under his breath as he pushed through the door to Jasmine Cottage. It was the hippiest, dippiest, fucking twee-est fucking place he’d ever set foot in, but the coffee was good, and there was no fucking way anyone was going to catch Anthony J. Crowley in a fucking Starbucks.

Doing his level best to ignore the framed local art on the walls and the blackboard hanging above the counter, decorated with curly-cue drawings of flowers and descriptions of froofy daily specials, Crowley sauntered up to the counter.

_Ah, good,_ he thought as he recognized the bespectacled barista at the counter. He liked Anathema, not that he’d ever tell her. In addition to serving fucking lavender lattes, she came around and did sets at the club sometimes. She was funny. She was quick and observant, and didn’t give a fuck about the club regulars who sneered at seeing a young woman up at the mic.

Anathema didn’t brighten when Crowley walked up to the counter, but that was really just because there was only so much brighter she could become and, besides, Crowley didn’t exactly have a reputation for making people’s days.

“Morning,” he grumbled, making as much of an effort as he ever did.

“Crowley, it’s after 3,” Anathema pointed out. 

“It’s also after 1977 and you’re still wearing that outfit, Starshine,” he drawled. “The Earth does say ‘hello,’ by the way.”

When she didn’t laugh, but instead cocked an eyebrow at him:

“Time’s a construct,” he waved his hands dismissively at her. “Can I just get my drink? Didn’t come here for a slumber party.”

“Maybe you need one,” Anathema quipped back. “Your nails could use it.”

Crowley tried not to grin at that, couldn’t let her see that she’d gotten a good one in. Also, shit: had he really let his nails get into that much of a state? He shoved his chewed, black-tipped fingers back into his pockets under the pretense of fishing for his wallet.

“What’ll it be this afternoon?” Anathema folded her arms on the counter and leaned forward. Crowley’s brittle heart softened a bit at the sight. It was almost as though she was glad he was there.

_Stop it. She’s not your friend. She just wants a good spot in the line-up._

Not that Crowley had control of the line-up.

“Coffee,” Crowley answered, plainly, stubbornly.

And the dance had begun.

“What size would you like, _sir?_ ” Anathema asked, suddenly all faux-sunshine and sugar.

“Big as you can legally give me.”

“Would you like any shots of flavor in that, _sir?_ ”

Crowley knew the question had been coming, but he winced anyway. “No, thanks. I buy coffee for the taste of coffee.”

Anathema rolled her eyes at him. “And let me guess, ‘black like your soul?’”

Crowley scoffed at her. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, have you?”

“Time to write some new jokes, Tony,” Anathema’s eyes twinkled for a second before she was flouncing around to pour him his coffee.

“You coming to open mic tonight?” Crowley asked her, not that he cared.

“Yep!” Anathema responded, turning back around with a mug. “Got a new five I’d like to try. You hosting?”

Crowley took the oversized mug away from her, allowing himself the tiniest heartbeat of a moment to relish the heat of it against his palms. 

“Certainly got nowhere better to be,” he responded to her hosting question, tilting his mug in a kind of salute to her as he went off to find some god awful table.

“And thank you for visiting the Jasmine Cottage, _sir,_ ” Anathema sparkled after him. 

“Yeah, speaking of, your actual jasmine plants need a lot of work, Device,” Crowley growled over his shoulder. It was true. They were in a right state, but Anathema had already told him off once before for cursing at the blooms while other customers were in the shop.

Crowley set his coffee down on a table as far away from any other human beings as he possibly could, and let his long, gangly limbs settle down into a plush, vintage armchair. He took a long draught from his coffee and let the heat of it wash down over his bones and guts. His insides were already a tangle of nerves. It never mattered how many times he’d done it, and he’d done it a lot of fucking times. How many times he got up on a stage in front of sloshed strangers. His stomach ached for the whole day beforehand.

He looked over the outline of his new stuff. Of stuff he hadn’t done yet. His fingers twitched at the sight of it.

Anthony J. Crowley hadn’t performed new material in a comedy club in nearly fifteen years.

He stuck a pen between his teeth and stared down at the outline. 

And stared.

And chewed on the pen, and swallowed his black coffee, and shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders. Why was it so fucking hot in this bloody place?

And stared.

And, after a while, got up to stretch his long legs. And to wander back to the counter and request and refill from Anathema and to make fun of her outfit some more.

And stared.

Finally, he put his pen to the paper. Let the tip linger just below where he’d written long ago: “What are they putting in bananas these days?”

He drew a careful arrow to indicate the long-ago-imagined punchline, and wrote down, “What’s the set up to this, you twit?”

The pen hovered carefully over the next blank page for what might have been hours. Finally, an angry buzz of his phone snapped him out of his complete and utter failure. He pressed his finger to the screen to see who had dared to disturb his artistic process.

**Where the fuck are you?**

Which, of course, prompted Crowley to check the time, and _fuck._ 7:30 pm. He’d been due at the club half an hour ago. He drank down the cold dregs of his nearly-empty mug, shoved his notebook and pen back into his pocket, and got to his feet. He brought his empty mug back up to the counter. Anathema was leaning forward on her elbows again, poring over her own notebook.

“Do the bit about the whales again,” Crowley advised as he set the mug down with a click. “Killed last week.”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“Aww, thanks, Tony.”

“And put on a blouse that was in fashion within the last two decades,” he continued, unable to stop himself, as he turned to go. 

“See you tonight, Tony!” Anathema called out after him. She knew he hated being called “Tony,” but he didn’t hate her, which she also probably knew- fuck- so he let her get away with it. He waved vaguely over his shoulder at her, and stepped back out into the day.

Oh, fuck.

Into the night. The sun was beginning to set and a chill had begun to descend over the air. 

_Feels like show time._

The 9th Circle Comedy Club was, awfully conveniently, located just a few blocks away from Jasmine Cottage. Crowley ambled down the street towards the club, running through familiar set ups and punchlines in his head. He was already losing his nerve about trying the new stuff.

He pushed through the door to backstage, and:

“You’re late,” Hastur rightfully accused him as soon as he was in sight. Crowley fought the urge to roll his eyes. Hastur and his friend Ligur has been regulars at the club for what had felt like fucking centuries, and they were always so bloody _intense_ about everything. 

“Yeah, hi, guys,” Crowley responded. “Where’s Beez?”

“I’m right here,” came a highly familiar voice behind him.

Crowley turned to them, and faked a deep, sanctimonious bow. “Lord Beelzebub of The 9th Circle.”

“Crowley the traitor,” they responded, flatly. “You _are_ late, you know.”

“Lost track of time,” Crowley confessed. 

“Are you ready for tonight?” Beez asked. They were tiny, but they were perhaps more intense, in their own strange way, than even Hastur and Ligur. They owned the club and they took it very seriously. Crowley figured he’d probably take something that seriously if he owned it, but he couldn’t really be sure.

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Beez, it’s just open mic night.”

“Don’t fuck this up, Crowley,” Beez replied, turning to walk away. Crowley hated being left alone with Hastur and Ligur. 

“Guys, it’s fine,” Crowley acknowledged them finally. “I’ve done this before. You can trust me.”

“It’d be a funny old world if comedians went around trusting each other,” Ligur scoffed.

Crowley made a face, and turned to the wall to survey the go-up list for the night.

Hastur and Ligur, of course. There was Anathema. Good. A couple of other names he recognized. As always, many that he didn’t. Poor idiots just trying it out for the first time. 

He never would have said it out loud, but, deep down somewhere in the heart that he tried to ignore, Crowley wished them all well. Hoped that they’d break a leg and then some.

Crowley began his pre-show ritual. He paced backstage, murmuring jokes to himself that he’d been telling for nearly twenty years. The volume of mingled voices and clinked glasses grew gradually louder and louder from offstage, and that was all the timekeeper he needed. Sure enough, finally:

_Take a deep breath, Anthony._

A familiar strain of generic rock music blasted through the club, and Crowley indeed sucked in a breath. As always, there was no going back now. Beez’s voice boomed out above the music:

“Ladies and gentlemen,” they announced. “Welcome to the 9th Circle Comedy Club. Give it up for your host for the evening, Anthony J. Crowley!”

Crowley pushed through the curtains to the sound of applause. This was always his least favorite part of every show. Applause and cheers before he’d done anything to earn it. It drove him mad.

He wrapped his fingers around the microphone and yanked it free from the stand, bringing it up in front of his lips.

“Hi, guys,” Crowley began. “Welcome to the 9th Circle Comedy Club, how’s everybody doing tonight?”

There was a general exclamation from the faceless audience. There always was.

Crowley launched into ancient opening banter. His heart still thrummed wildly against his chest, but he got through it. It was muscle memory, really, after so many years. And the audience did laugh at him, and maybe that was enough like something he didn’t dare to name. 

Hastur was up first, so Crowley introduced him, and then went back to hover backstage. Like Crowley, Hastur was a bit of a broken record, trotting out the same old material he always did. The audience was kind, though. Must have been a lot of new folks out there tonight. Wasn’t that always the dream? Someone new who hadn’t heard all your bullshit yet.

Crowley generally liked to move pretty quickly between sets when he was hosting. That was the mark of a good host, after all; the ability to keep the show moving. To know when the moment was about them, and when it wasn’t. Crowley brought Ligur up immediately after Hastur, and, like his friend, Ligur played his old hits. The audience was, once again, kind.

Crowley called Anathema up next, and _damn,_ he’d been right about revisiting the whale material, but she also had some new jokes tonight about her family’s history with witchcraft. It was personal and specific, and the crowd was thoroughly on her side. Crowley didn’t bother to fight the grin that spread over his face as he watched from backstage. It was fine. Anathema couldn’t see him.

The response to Anathema was warm and emboldening. Crowley’s pulse quickened. Maybe he could try his new stuff tonight. They seemed an all right bunch, this Saturday night crowd. As he crossed Anathema’s path to return to center stage, he even reached out to awkwardly squeeze her shoulder. As close as he’d ever get to thanking her.

As he resumed his stance at the mic, he began:

“Give it up again for Anathema Device!” he prompted the crowd to continue their cheering for Anathema. And then, “And give it up in general for the 9th Circle, the nicest spot of Hell you’re likely to find on this godforsaken Earth.”

He stepped away from the mic stand, a bit like tiptoeing further out onto the high dive.

“Imagine being an actual demon in Hell,” Crowley posited. “What must that be like? I mean, we all think our jobs are Hell, I know.”

A few encouraging chuckles.

“But, I mean, really think about that,” Crowley continued. “What must a memo look like in Hell? ‘To: All Employees. From: The Demon Known as Crowley. Subject: I’m writing to inform you that there’s to be rather a big inquisition in Spain over the next few years. Please forward all questions to my work e-mail address. Also, please use the kitchen on the second floor if you need a microwave.’”

The laughter grew louder, and oh, Crowley drank the sound of it down like medicine. But, in the midst of the laughter, he thought he heard something else. Thought he heard talking somewhere out in the audience.

“What’s the company party like in Hell?” Crowley pushed forward. “Do they get tired of barbecues, I wonder?”

Amidst the laughter, there it was again. Yeah, someone was definitely talking. Crowley took a step farther downstage and squinted out into the crowd.

“Would you care to share with the entire class, my friend?” Crowley threw out into the audience. It was always tricky, calling out someone who was talking. Crowley knew he was potentially forfeiting control over the situation, but also, FUCK. Shut up while someone is performing.

There they were. A little table in the back, three idiots in suits. Some idiotic co-workers night out, no doubt. 

“I wanted to know,” called out one of the idiots, snickering a little. “Are trousers that tight standard issue in Hell?”

The idiot to the left of the first idiot slapped the table as she laughed. And worse, other members of the crowd were laughing at that jab as well. Crowley felt a jolt of panic in his guts. He could laugh it off, make fun of his own trousers, keep moving forward, but…

No.

Fuck this idiot. His trousers were _cool._

“Oh, I don’t know,” Crowley drawled. “No more than that tie must be standard issue in your soul sucking cubicle. At least we get laid down in Hell.” 

He wanted to cringe as soon as the words left his mouth. Because it wasn't even really funny. It was just juvenile and mean, but fuck, he was on the spot.

Now some members of the audience “ooh-ed,” and swiveled their heads back to look at the Idiot Table. _Fuck,_ thought Crowley. He could make out Beez off to the side of the stage, furiously gesturing at him to knock it off and move on.

Because no heckler was ever really worth it, especially at open mic night when it’s the host’s job to protect the fledgling comics. To make them look good, and to create as positive an environment as a grimy, stinking comedy club could possibly be.

“What is this table, by the way?” Crowley gestured at the three idiots. “Did you three get lost on your way to see the _Sound of Music_ revival or something?” He punched a fist into the air. “Climb every mountain, guys.”

“Fjord every stream!” shouted back the first idiot, grinning.

The audience laughed again.

_Fuck._

Crowley saw the idiot start to open his mouth again, and he hurried to introduce the next comic instead. Barely registered their name as it came out of his mouth. 

The audience shifted their attention to the new meat, and Crowley fought to keep his shoulders from shaking as he walked past them to get safely backstage. Beez was waiting for him there, and punched him in the arm.

“Assault,” Crowley murmured.

“Keep it moving up there, Crowley,” Beez warned. “I’m not paying you to pick fights over your fragile ego.”

“You’re barely paying me as it is.”

They punched him again, and walked away.

Crowley turned his attention immediately back to the Idiot Table. He would be prepared this time, if one of them said something else to him. He had four minutes to study and research them, to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong with these wankers, at least on the surface.

The idiot who had talked in the first place… He was bald. That was a good, easy start. Punching below the belt, sure, but it was something. His companion who had laughed, she was a bit trickier from the outside. She made her suit look cool, damn her. Crowley was petulantly grateful that she hadn’t been the one to come for him.

And then the third idiot…

Huh.

The third idiot was sitting very quietly. Crowley could make out shining, bright blonde hair, and a troubled expression. Hands folded neatly in his lap when he wasn’t nervously sipping his drink. A gin and tonic, Crowley would have bet anything.

He was really sort of lovely. Crowley couldn’t figure out for the life of him what he was doing here.

Crowley got back onstage. He left the Idiot Table alone, which meant they had won. He left all of them alone for the rest of the night. He did his job, he played the hits, he didn’t attempt any more new material, he got through it.

“Good night, everybody,” he finally heard himself saying. “Tip your bartenders.”

And that was that. 

He walked offstage to meet Beez again.

“Maybe leave this bit out of your curriculum for tomorrow night, yeah?”

Crowley didn’t hear them. Just nodded, desperate to get out of any interaction for the rest of the evening that wasn’t exclusively between him and a glass of whiskey.

Beez sighed, and just touched him on the shoulder, no punch. “First round’s on the house, okay?”

Crowley nodded again, already making his way to the bar.

*** 

Crowley was well into his third whiskey (neat) when it happened.

“Um, hello,” came a nervous voice off to his right.

Crowley swirled around in his seat, bound and determined to pick a fight that wasn’t just in his own brain, but:

Oh.

_Oh, fuck._

It was him.

The Third Idiot.

Crowley’s brain went into hyper-observation mode. A set of impossibly kind blue eyes were looking at him. His hair was this fluffy white-blonde situation for which Crowley knew he’d never find the right words. His smile was polite but nervous, and his (surely) soft hands were clasped in front of his stomach. He was wearing a _fucking bow tie_ in this dingy comedy club. He was all starshines and creams and lake-blues, nearly glowing within the dark, red bowels of the club. 

Crowley was certain that he’d never seen a softer, more beautiful creature in his entire life, and he felt an immediate pull down in his guts to rescue this pure thing from this dark, terrible place.

_Get out,_ he wanted to snarl. _Go take your goodness somewhere else, angel._

That’s what he looked like, this strange, soft man. An angel. 

Crowley clicked his jaw shut, cheeks reddening a little as he realized that he’d been staring without saying anything. 

“What?” he finally spat out. 

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” said the angel. His voice was a little wobbly and breathy, but there was a foundation of determination beneath it. Like he’d been working himself up to come over and talk to Crowley. The angel paused suddenly, fidgeting with his interlocked hands a little, clearly losing his nerve.

“Well, you have,” Crowley murmured, hating himself. “So, get on with it.”

“Yes, well,” the angel continued. “I’m frightfully ashamed to admit it, but one of my colleagues was the gentleman who was so unkind during your performance. I was hoping that I might apologize on his behalf.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. “‘On his behalf?’” He mocked the angel’s prim little accent. “Listen, angel, it’s none of my business what sort of company you keep, but don’t come crying to me for forgiveness.”

The angel gaped a little at that. “He is a work colleague who has regrettably over imbibed this evening. I merely thought this was the polite thing, coming to talk to you.”

Crowley barked out a laugh at that, his head already foggy from whiskey. “I’m sorry your ‘work colleague’ is a complete and total arse. And don’t worry your fluffy head about me, angel. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Well,” the angel breathed, evidently not prepared to let it go. “Well, I’m sorry on behalf of them, too.”

“What do you really want?” Crowley wanted to know, whiskey making him less and less subtle as he sized up the angel standing before him.

“I’m not quite sure, really,” the angel finally admitted, looking down at his hands.

And Crowley wanted to seize those hands, wanted to assure this man that he had nothing to offer him, and that he was better going back to the library where he oh-so-certainly belonged.

“Well, call me when you figure it out,” Crowley turned back to his glass.

The angel stood there for a moment longer before finally turning to walk away.

Crowley ordered a fourth whiskey.

*** 

When he finally made it back home, Crowley practically kicked in the door to his flat. He didn’t bother to turn on any lights as he stomped towards his bedroom, calling out as he went:

“I’m home, sweetheart.”

To nothing. To no one.

He threw himself down onto his bed, feeling languid and heavy. Everything sucked, and he was fucking drunk, and he wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep for the next fucking century.

_Um, hello._

The angel’s face floated into his imagination. He might have been weird, sure, but he was also fucking gorgeous. Crowley groaned as his head flopped over onto his left shoulder.

“ _Really?_ ” he asked himself.

Really, it seemed. 

Because he was hard in the tight trousers that had caused so much trouble that evening, and he couldn’t fucking believe the strange, fussy angel was the culprit.

“Whatever works,” he said, again to no one. 

He clumsily unzipped himself and brought his cock out of his jeans. Wrapping his hand around himself, he fell into more familiar patterns. It had been a long time since anyone else had touched Anthony J. Crowley, so he’d gotten rather good at what worked, so to say.

But thinking about the angel… Crowley wondered what his full lips would feel like crushed against Crowley’s own. Wondered what was beneath all those shining layers. Wondered if he was always so nervous, or if those flashes of determination showed up in bed as well.

Crowley threw his head back and shuddered, miserable and alone, and came all over his hand, thinking of a strange angel he’d only just met. 

***

_Sunday._

It was already well into the afternoon when Anthony J. Crowley finally woke up.

He still didn’t have any fucking curtains.

He dragged his hungover body out of bed, placed his glasses on his face, and went to get ready for another day. There wasn’t even a show today. Nothing to distract him.

“Fuck,” he said to no one. To nothing.

_Well, we’re not doing this all day,_ he grumbled to himself.

He dragged himself back to Jasmine Cottage, hoping against hope-

“Hey, Crowley,” Anathema said to him, and her voice was so kind and sorry for him that he wanted to rip the fucking art off of the fucking wall and bludgeon himself to death with it.

“Don’t do that,” he warned as he approached the counter.

“Do what?”

“Be nice to me. It was a bad night, that’s it. Stick around as long as I have, and you’ll have plenty of them.”

“Looking forward to it,” she responded coolly. “What can I get for you?”

Crowley was fully prepared to make the same order as always, but what came out of his mouth was:

“A mocha.”

Anathema, who had already had her hands on the coffee pot, very nearly dropped it. “What did you just say?”

Crowley internally panicked. How the fuck was he getting out of this one? Fuck, he must have been exhausted.

“For the extra caffeine,” he explained. 

“Do you…” Her face was full of wonder. “Do you want _whipped cream_ on that?”

He did.

“Of course not,” he snarled.

Anathema turned around to start making the drink. “I guess you need the extra sugar for class tonight, huh?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” This had been a mistake, coming here.

Anathema twirled back around, raising an eyebrow again at him. “Level One class? Intro to Stand-Up? You didn’t forget, did you?”

Crowley fought the groan fighting to escape from his throat. Because he did remember. Now, anyway. He vaguely recalled telling Beez that he’d take the Level One class off of their hands for this next round, and-

Shit.

ShitshitshitshitSHIT.

He took the mocha away from Anathema, only offering a curt nod in response to her suspicious expression. He found his awful armchair in the faraway corner and sank into it, regretting perhaps everything about his entire bloody life up until this point.

What the hell was he going to talk about? What business did he have teaching anyone about comedy? He’d had a bit of a hot streak in the 90’s, sure, but that didn’t mean he actually knew anything.

Beez’s comment about “curriculums” zapped into his memory, and this time he did groan. What the fuck was a “curriculum?”

_Relax,_ whispered a smooth voice in his head. _You know more than a bunch of wide-eyed twenty-year-olds. Just bust out some old improv games tonight, give ‘em a thrill to be working with former Big Deal Anthony J. Crowley._

It was treacherous, the smooth voice that sometimes slid over his brain like oil. He knew that. 

But fuck.

It had gotten him this far, hadn’t it?

Crowley pulled his notebook out of his pocket, and, on the blank pages where he longed for new and brilliant jokes to exist, he began to scribble down something like class notes.

***

Crowley was beginning to feel almost positive as he made his way back to 9th Circle. His notes weren’t entirely rubbish, and that mocha actually had done wonders for his overall disposition.

Besides:

_This might be a disaster,_ Crowley thought as he pushed through the doors to the club. _But at least it’ll be a disaster that takes your mind off of that weird fucking angel._

Because, even while panic-writing, Crowley’s mind jumped back to the thought of that beautiful idiot standing before him, all soft and innocent.

Crowley sincerely hoped that he’d never see him again.

It was always so weird and sad to see the club with the house lights up. Still, there was something comforting and familiar about the stale whiskey and cigarette smell. Crowley didn’t really go in for scented candles, but he figured he might give them a go if he could capture the smell of the club. 

_Fuck, you’re pathetic._

“You’re late,” Hastur sneered. At his shoulder, always, Ligur nodded emphatically. 

“Yeah, I know that. Try a new approach, guys,” Crowley ignored them. What the fuck were they doing in a Level 1 class, anyway? They’d been going up for years. Not that it had made them any better. Okay, maybe they could stand to be here. And, now, at least, he wouldn’t be the only bastard pushing fifty during this catastrophe.

There was Anathema right up front, and sitting off to the side of her was some nervous bloke in glasses whom Crowley thought he’d seen at open mic night a couple of times. Nate, maybe? It didn’t matter. 

_Small class,_ Crowley thought to himself as he scanned the house. It appeared to just be the five of them; Hastur, Ligur, Anathema, Nate, and there was…

Crowley could not stop his jaw from dropping.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asked, disbelievingly.

Every set of eyes in the room followed Crowley’s stare to the buttoned-up creature sitting in the back of the room, a neat, new notebook sitting in his lap, a freshly sharpened pencil between his fingers.

“I’m here to learn the basics of stand-up comedy,” the angel responded, quite formally.

_Lesson One: Expect the unexpected._


	2. a funny thing happened on the way...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night out at a dingy comedy club in the company of his co-workers was certainly not Aziraphale Fell's first (or second or even nineteenth) choice for his Saturday evening.
> 
> But now he can't get a certain red-haired comedian off of his mind.

_Saturday._

Aziraphale Fell blinked his eyes open immediately and took in a deep breath. He reveled for a minute in the soft feel of his tartan, flannel sheets against his pajama-clad body. He breathed in the scent of his bedroom, all notes of black tea and leatherbound books. He heard birds singing just outside the window.

Aziraphale loved his Saturdays.

He adored his job, please don’t misunderstand. He practically lived for his young students. And, tomorrow, while he was grading their assignments, he would be most delighted to think of them again. But today, well.

Today was for him to do exactly as he pleased. He’d have a nice breakfast, he’d catch up on some reading, perhaps wander off to his favorite bookshop a little later in the afternoon. 

“Good morning,” he said, contentedly, to nothing. To no one.

To the birds, perhaps.

Aziraphale rolled out of bed, almost already able to taste the enormous breakfast he was planning to cook up downstairs. There would be eggs and bacon and fruit and, oh, he wondered if he had everything he needed to make some nice muffins... 

His mobile went off. 

Aziraphale frowned. He’d meant to turn that horrid thing off for the weekend. He’d really only gotten one for work purposes. Much to his chagrin, his co-teachers kept up a pretty constant series of group text messages, and, even if he’d thought it was polite, Aziraphale couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. So, he usually turned the whole device off at the end of the work day on Friday and didn’t look back until Monday morning.

Aziraphale picked up the phone and read the offending message.

**See everyone tonight! Remember: Doors open at 8:30pm, 9th Circle Club.**

Followed by a series of tiny pictures that Aziraphale did not much care to interpret.

His heart plummeted. He had entirely forgotten.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ his fellow instructors at Tadfield Middle. As the years went on and on, though, it had become increasingly obvious to Aziraphale that, besides teaching, they really had very little in common.

Not that that fact in and of itself was uncommon.

Aziraphale was used to not exactly fitting in. And he was fine by himself, he really was. Why, he had the company of every great author and composer over the course of human history, didn’t he? And, well, he wasn’t very enthusiastic at all about the prospect of an evening spent in Uriel and (especially) Sandalphon’s company.

_But you said “yes,”_ a little voice reminded him. _Something made you say “yes,” Aziraphale._

Aziraphale sighed. He’d belong somewhere, some day.

He sat back down on his bed for a moment, feeling the sink and the give of the mattress beneath him. The thought of an entire non-academic evening in his co-workers’ company made his heart beat a little faster than he would have liked. He wondered for a minute if he oughtn’t draw the curtains and go back to bed until the whole ghastly enterprise began.

_No._

Aziraphale turned his attention back to the device still in his hand. Taking another deep breath, he willed himself to type:

**Can’t wait!**

He perused his little picture options before sending the message. What conveyed an appropriate amount of enthusiasm about the evening ahead?

He settled on a little green pear. He sighed as he clicked “send.”

He liked pears.

He shut the thing down and returned it to his bedside table, there to leave him unbothered for the rest of his lovely Saturday morning. 

He was Aziraphale Fell, and nothing was going to ruin his lovely Saturday morning.

***

As the day went on and as muffins were indeed baked and consumed, Aziraphale considered the appeal of stand-up comedy. He couldn’t say that it immediately made sense to him. Whatever happened to the popularity of a good magic show? 

Because Aziraphale Fell knew what it felt like to be laughed at. It wasn’t a feeling he thought he’d ever been keen to try to purposefully recreate.

The day drew on and on, and, as the time to depart for the show crept closer, Aziraphale found himself feeling increasingly nervous.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he admonished himself. “You’re a grown adult, and it’s just one night out with colleagues.”

_We’ll go to that nice sushi spot tomorrow,_ he promised himself in his head. 

His anxiety was getting the better of him. Sitting in his favorite chair with a well beloved book, he recognized that he was no longer able to focus, mind wandering instead to all the myriad ways tonight could go wrong. Perhaps the club wouldn’t carry his preferred gin, just as an awful example.

With an hour to go before his expected arrival, Aziraphale gave up. He shut his book ruefully, and went to put on his long cream-colored coat. He would go for a little evening stroll and get some nice, fresh air before being locked in what was sure to be a horrid, sticky place with his co-workers who didn’t understand him. 

He went outside and welcomed the calming presence of the cool evening air on his face. He allowed himself a deep breath.

Because Aziraphale was frustrated and worried and not at all looking forward to this outing, but he would get through it. He would. 

He’d been through worse.

On the stroll to the comedy club, he paused outside of an absolutely darling little coffee shop. 

“Jasmine Cottage,” he said out loud to himself, reading the sign above the door. He smiled up at the friendly green awning.

Yes, this was much more his speed than a dingy comedy club.

He stepped inside. Oh, it was a charming place. He breathed in deeply the fragrance of strong coffee and sweet pastries. He spotted a squashy looking armchair right up front near a window.

Yes. Some tea and a snack in a nice chair would set his spirits right again before he met up with his co-workers.

He approached the front counter where a young lady in glasses was bent over the counter, mumbling to herself. Aziraphale hated to disturb her, but, well, he had locked eyes upon a rather decadent looking tart of some sort in the glass case beneath the counter. 

“Pardon me, my dear,” he began, leaning down just a little to perhaps better be in range of the barista’s sight.

She jumped. “Oh! Hi! Sorry! What can I get you, sir?”

“No need to apologize,” Aziraphale responded, warmly. “Might I trouble you for a cup of Earl Grey and one of those lovely tarts in the case?”

“Sure thing!” she smiled back at him, seeming a little relieved. Perhaps because he hadn’t snapped at her for being distracted? (Humans really can be terrible sometimes, Aziraphale mused.) “Coming right up.”

“May I ask what you were saying to yourself just now?” Aziraphale was terribly curious. He had been known to talk to himself from time to time; practicing lessons, working himself up for interactions with his co-workers, etc. It was a delight to meet a fellow self-mumbler.

“I’m not crazy, I promise,” she assured him as she went about fixing his tea. “I’m a stand up comedian and I have a show tonight. Just trying to make sure I remember all my jokes.”

“My dear, will you be performing at The 9th Circle Comedy Club, by any chance?”

“That’s the place!”

A wave of relief flooded through Aziraphale. This peculiar mumbling barista seemed perfectly decent. Perhaps it wouldn’t all be so terrible.

“What do you like about it?” Aziraphale asked her.

“What do you mean?”

“About telling jokes in front of strangers?” Aziraphale couldn’t explain why the idea was rattling around his head so intensely. He liked for things to make sense, and this was something he had managed to make no sense of so far.

“Ah,” she turned to set his tea down in front of him. “Good question. My therapist probably wonders the same thing.”

She smiled at him and Aziraphale smiled back. Was he supposed to laugh? It had been a joke, he presumed. But was the care of one’s mental health really something to joke about? Was that the point? Oh, dear. 

“When it goes well,” she continued, kindly sparing him, eyes sparkling behind her spectacles. “And it doesn’t always, believe me.”

“I believe you,” Aziraphale shivered at the thought. 

“But when it does go well… it’s the most amazing, powerful feeling in the world. It’s _my_ voice, _my_ words, _my_ truth. If I can make someone laugh with all of my bullshit, then maybe it was all worth it after all, do you know what I mean?”

“I don’t know that I do,” Aziraphale confessed.

“Well, maybe you’ll see tonight,” and she gave him one more kind smile before ducking down to retrieve his tart. 

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, sincerely.

“And thank you for visiting the Jasmine Cottage, sir.”

Aziraphale brought his tea and his tart over to the armchair in front of the window. As he closed his eyes and swallowed his first sip of tea, he thought about what the funny barista had said. 

_If I can make someone laugh with all of my bullshit, then maybe it was all worth it after all._

Aziraphale thought about his own… bullshit, as it were. He thought of loneliness, of not fitting in, of sometimes feeling like he was a joke that he himself wasn’t in on. But he didn’t see how any of it was at all funny. As he thought about it more and more, he just found himself feeling sad. 

He bit into his tart, willing the familiar, friendly flavors of apple and cinnamon to stuff down the despair that he felt rising in his throat. He closed his eyes and settled back into his chair. Soft. It was almost like being held by someone dear.

Almost. 

***

_Oh, Good Lord._

Aziraphale showed his ID to a rather surly-looking bouncer and made his way into The 9th Circle Comedy Club. It was quite nearly as bad as he’d imagined it. The air was stale and sour, the lights were dim and dark, there was a poster on the hallway wall that read, “Do not lick the walls.” 

_Because someone tried before?_ he wondered with no small amount of dread.

“Aziraphale, over here!”

Aziraphale turned and forced a smile to his face. Uriel and Sandalphon had already claimed a small table near the back of the room. Uriel was fine, though she did have a tendency to look at Aziraphale as though he were constantly showing up to school with his shoes on backwards.

Sandalphon… was another situation. Aziraphale didn’t care for the way he interacted with his students. He seemed to think that shame and unkindness were great academic motivating factors, and he deployed them like weapons in his classroom.

Aziraphale surveyed the small table before them, already laden with empty glasses.

Oh, dear. 

He was going to need to catch up. He offered them a polite wave before hauling himself to the bar just past them. 

(They did not have his gin.) 

Aziraphale sipped his drink, noticing that he felt oddly anxious. His eyes kept darting over to a bunch of people in the corner by the stage scribbling furiously in their little notebooks. The comedians, he presumed. They all looked so terribly nervous, the poor things. Aziraphale hoped that they all had a good time up there.

“Thinking of joining them, Aziraphale?” Uriel’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. He turned back to his little group. They were staring at him, as they often did, as though he himself was some great joke. 

“Heavens no,” Aziraphale smiled, trying to stay polite. _This is bonding. This is important,_ he reminded himself. 

Sandalphon clapped him, rather too hard, on the shoulder. “Stick to your day job, Aziraphale.”

“I’m going to,” Aziraphale said, really wishing that they could close the door on this particular subject. 

But Sandalphon couldn’t let it go. “Can you imagine Aziraphale doing comedy?” Sandalphon proceeded to poorly attempt to mimic Aziraphale’s voice. “‘What’s the deal with waistcoats, am I right?’”

Uriel laughed out loud and Aziraphale nodded, a polite smile plastered across his face. He wondered if he still had time to feign a sudden illness in order to go home. His sushi restaurant didn’t close until 10, after all. 

But, just as Aziraphale was gathering up his nerve to abandon the enterprise, the lights of the club finally dimmed and some awful loud rock music started to play over some hidden speakers. Aziraphale winced at the racket as everyone else in the audience began to cheer. He really wished he’d stayed home. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a voice from the speaker. “Welcome to the 9th Circle Comedy Club. Give it up for your host for the evening, Anthony J. Crowley!”

A tall figure clad all in black loped out onto the stage from behind the curtain. He was skinny, all long, gangly limbs. His long fingers wrapped so easily around the microphone as he pulled it free from its stand. His copper hair was half pulled away off of his face, and the rest of it brushed against his long neck and narrow shoulders. He wore dark sunglasses and the tightest jeans that Aziraphale had ever seen.

Not that Aziraphale thought he had ever seen anyone like Anthony J. Crowley before.

“Hi, guys,” drawled Anthony J. Crowley into the microphone. “Welcome to the 9th Circle Comedy Club, how’s everybody doing tonight?”

_Rather terribly, thank you,_ Aziraphale thought to himself as the rest of the crowd continued to shout. 

After that, Aziraphale barely registered the actual words coming out of the comic’s mouth. He felt mesmerized by the way he moved about the stage, by the certainty in the way he held the microphone, by the way he was never tripped up by the cord or the mic stand. He moved like something out of another world. 

Far too quickly, the red-haired comedian was rousing the audience in cheers for someone else and then walking off of the stage. 

_Come back,_ Aziraphale wanted to beg, fascinated. _Who are you? Why do you do this? Does it make you happy? Why?_

“Bit of a flash bastard, if you ask me,” Sandalphon leaned forward to whisper to Uriel and Aziraphale. Probably just to Uriel, really, who rewarded his comment with a smirk.

Aziraphale tried to pretend that he hadn’t heard, tried to fix his attention on the new comedian onstage, but all he could focus on was the thought of Anthony J. Crowley. He did perk up when the kind barista took the stage. Aziraphale knew he was certainly no expert, but she was really quite good. The rest of the crowd must have thought so too, cheering and laughing as they were. 

“Aziraphale’s a tough critic,” Sandalphon whispered, not as quietly as he ought have.

Please understand that Aziraphale did not condone speaking over the performing arts, but:

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You haven’t laughed out loud once tonight, Aziraphale,” Uriel pointed out.

Aziraphale turned back to his drink, not having a good answer. _Wonderful,_ he thought to himself a tad miserably. _Another thing you’re not doing correctly._

Because he actually was having a better time than he expected. The barista had been quite charming and talented, and oh, Anthony J. Crowley was back onstage and Aziraphale didn’t think he would get over just how effortless the man looked up there. He made the stage of that sticky comedy club look like the stage of Shakespeare’s Globe. And, as with Shakespeare, the words that Crowley uttered didn’t always make immediate sense to Aziraphale’s ears, but he thought he could probably listen to them all night. 

“Imagine being an actual demon in Hell,” Crowley prompted the crowd. “What must that be like? I mean, we all think our jobs are Hell, I know.”

Aziraphale frowned as the rest of the audience snickered around him. He didn’t think his job was Hell at all. He thought of the shining white walls of the hallways of Tadfield Middle. Thought of his sweet students. Thought of the annual choir concert which Aziraphale had never missed. 

With the exception of his co-workers, Aziraphale thought his job was a little like Heaven.

_Is that funny?_ He wondered. _Probably not._

Onstage, Anthony J. Crowley was still talking:

“But, I mean, really think about that. What must a memo look like in Hell? ‘To: All Employees. From: The Demon Known as Crowley. Subject: I’m writing to inform you that there’s to be rather a big inquisition in Spain over the next few years. Please forward all questions to my work e-mail address. Also, please use the kitchen on the second floor if you need a microwave.’”

Aziraphale smiled at the idea of a memo sent from Hell. He wondered what an accompanying memo from Heaven would look like. _Attention, distinguished colleagues. I am writing to inform you that there will be cake in the third floor conference room today to celebrate all the January birthdays. Angel’s food, of course. Sincerely, the Principality Aziraphale._

Was that funny?

Before he could really let his imagination wander, Aziraphale found himself distracted by barely-hushed whispers off to his side. He turned to see Uriel and Sandalphon speaking in low tones and laughing. Aziraphale felt instantly horrified. He didn’t frequent comedy clubs, it was true, but he knew that at the symphony at least, this sort of behavior would never stand.

Just as he leaned forward to hush them:

“Would you care to share with the entire class, my friend?”

Aziraphale felt his face flush instantly. When he turned back to the stage, there was terribly handsome Anthony J. Crowley, glaring at their table from behind his dark glasses. 

“I wanted to know,” shouted Sandalphon, and Aziraphale flushed hotter still. This was entirely unacceptable behavior. “Are trousers that tight standard issue in Hell?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. He was stuck with Sandalphon after all. Would see him bright and early every Monday morning for (likely) eternity. He might never see Anthony J. Crowley again.

Oh.

That idea landed on Aziraphale with a weight he did not expect.

“What is this table, by the way?”

Aziraphale realized with horror that Crowley was referring to all three of them now. He wanted to stand up on the table and protest that he would never talk over Crowley’s jokes. Wanted to shout out into the smoky air: “They don’t even like me!”

“Did you three get lost on your way to see the _Sound of Music_ revival or something?” Crowley hissed at them from the stage. “Climb every mountain, guys.”

“Fjord every stream!” Sandalphon shouted back, and the crowd around them laughed.

And again, Aziraphale wanted to protest. Desperately Wanted to explain that he much preferred _The King and I_ when it came to Rodgers and Hammerstein, actually.

But Aziraphale stayed silent. Tried to keep his eyes on his drink. Kept his hands to himself. Sat back and let his colleague ruin this strange man’s evening.

_You’re a fool and a coward,_ Aziraphale, whispered an awful voice in Aziraphale’s head.

*** 

The show ended, the audience clapped, and Anthony J. Crowley slunk off of the stage.

Aziraphale felt horrible.

“Eh, I’ve seen better,” Sandalphon insisted as he and Uriel began to gather their coats from the backs of their chairs. Aziraphale, smartly not knowing what all those chairs had seen, had not taken his off. 

Uriel shrugged a little. “Yeah, they were all right.”

Aziraphale felt himself growing warm around the ears. (Perhaps he should have taken his coat off after all.) He felt it welling up in him: that familiar, gentle dissent. That little murmur of opposition that kept him apart from the rest of them, that kept him on his own. That made him odd.

_Leave it alone,_ Aziraphale.

He couldn’t. He never could.

“I thought they were all quite lovely,” Aziraphale argued, but he looked down at his hands as he stood up for the comedians. 

Uriel laughed at that. “Yeah, we could all tell, Aziraphale. Your boyfriend in the dark glasses is over at the bar, by the way. You should say ‘hi.’”

Aziraphale turned in the direction of her gaze and oh.

Oh, my.

There he was indeed. Tall, crimson-haired Anthony J. Crowley sitting at the bar in the back of the room. He looked so unnatural off of the stage. He didn’t appear to be sitting atop his bar stool so much as someone somewhere had poured him into it. Could a man be formed from liquid? What was Anthony J. Crowley made of?

_You’re staring, Aziraphale._

“Those trousers must have made some impact,” Sandalphon leered.

Aziraphale whirled back around to face his colleagues, something inside of him finally cracking a bit. “You know, I think I will go over and say something. Lovely to have seen you both. Quite looking forward to Monday morning.”

And before they could make him feel more absurd than he already did, Aziraphale turned back and found himself marching over to the bar and to the strange, beautiful man who sat slumped there.

Aziraphale watched the comedian known as Crowley drink his whiskey for a moment before working up the courage to say anything. He was even more fascinating up close. There was something… crooked about him. He was uneven, mouth pulled down in one corner, one eyebrow raised above his dark glasses, one hip shunted off to the side on its stool, one leg jutting out beneath him. He was angles and frowns and whiskey neat and Aziraphale had no Earthly idea what to say to him.

“Um, hello,” is what he finally decided on.

Anthony J. Crowley turned around, mouth already open, like a serpent about to strike. When he saw Aziraphale, however, he stopped and clamped his mouth shut again. 

“What?” he finally snapped.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” Aziraphale managed, ashamed of the tremor that he detected in his own voice. He felt so cowardly in front of Crowley. 

“Well, you have,” Crowley pointed out and oh, dear, this wasn’t going well at all. “So, get on with it.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale continued. “I’m frightfully ashamed to admit it, but one of my colleagues was the gentleman who was so unkind during your performance. I was hoping that I might apologize on his behalf.”

“‘On his behalf?’” Crowley managed a rather impressive imitation of Aziraphale’s voice. “Listen, angel, it’s none of my business what sort of company you keep, but don’t come crying to me for forgiveness.”

_Angel._

“He is a work colleague who has regrettably over imbibed this evening,” Aziraphale explained, hating the feeling of this man’s ire in his direction. “I merely thought this was the polite thing, coming to talk to you.”

Crowley laughed at him. Aziraphale wished he was being funny on purpose. Wished he could do something to coax a genuine laugh from Anthony J. Crowley. 

“I’m sorry your ‘work colleague’ is a complete and total arse. And don’t worry your fluffy head about me, angel. I’ve dealt with worse.”

Aziraphale believed him. Couldn’t imagine what awful things drunken audience members might have said to him in the past. 

“Well,” Aziraphale breathed, willing his voice to be steady. “Well, I’m sorry on behalf of them, too.”

“What do you really want?” Crowley leaned forward on his bar stool.

_What do you really want, Aziraphale?_

“I’m not quite sure, really,” Aziraphale confessed, shifting his gaze to his hands. 

“Well, call me when you figure it out,” Crowley said before turning back to his drink.

And Aziraphale had a million more things that he wanted to say, that he wanted to ask. But Crowley’s back was turned to him, his sharp shoulders hunched up around his ears. Aziraphale felt himself possessed with the desire to reach out and touch those shoulders, to try to coax them into something like relaxation.

But he’d had a chance once already to protect Anthony J. Crowley tonight, and he’d failed. He’d kept his silly mouth shut, and he’d let this creature be hurt.

Wondering how it was possible to be so completely laughable without being at all funny, Aziraphale abandoned The 9th Circle Comedy Club. 

***

Aziraphale was not a person who needed much sleep. At least not a person who wanted much sleep. His mind was too alert, too constantly whirring. When he did go to close his eyes at night, his brain kept him awake. 

So, why not just make another cup of tea and stay up?

Trusty mug of Earl Grey in hand, Aziraphale sat down at his desk. Pushed aside the stack of book reports that he really needed to get around to grading the following morning. He took a deep sip of tea, and settled back, allowing this to be pleasant instead of… 

Strange. 

He relished research, of diving deep and learning everything he could about a fascinating subject. It reminded him of his university days, which seems like centuries ago now.

He typed “Anthony J. Crowley” into his Internet browser’s search engine.

And there he was. The very same grouchy, handsome comedian. It seemed that he always wore those dark sunglasses, Aziraphale noted as he scrolled through image after image. He finally found a glasses-free picture and he couldn’t help but smile at it.

It was a much younger Crowley, looking just so impossibly 1990s. His skinny shoulders were practically drowning in the oversized red blazer he wore. His red hair had been shorter then, spiked up in the front. His mouth was wide open, obviously speaking into the microphone. No one ever looks particularly attractive when they’re enunciating, but Aziraphale really had to hand it to 1990’s Anthony J. Crowley. 

He was certainly making an effort.

And his eyes.

Aziraphale frowned for a moment and leaned in closer to the monitor. Had the image been worked up somehow with that Photoshop device? Young Crowley’s eyes appeared to glow gold, burning into him across time and space and technology. Aziraphale had never seen eyes like that before. He couldn’t imagine why Crowley covered them up now. 

Aziraphale didn’t know why, but his heart broke a little for the young comic in the image. Aziraphale wondered if he’d always been so combative and surly. Or had something happened to this darling young man that had made him hard and angry with the world?

_Well, maybe not with the world._ Aziraphale, thought to himself, fairly. _Maybe just with you._

Aziraphale took another sip of his tea, and proceeded now to click on articles about Crowley. It seemed the comic had been something of a star on the rise in his red blazer days, but there wasn’t much out there about his current existence. Aziraphale found a Twitter account. _@unhingedaj indeed,_ he thought to himself. 

And there was information about last night’s open mic, a podcast episode or two, and then, from the 9th Circle’s website:

“Intro to Stand Up Comedy with Anthony J. Crowley. Sunday evenings. 7-9pm. You can’t do it with style, if you don’t know what to do.” 

Sandalphon’s words from earlier drifted into his mind. “ _Can you imagine Aziraphale doing comedy?_ ”

And Aziraphale couldn’t, now that he tried. He thought again of all those nervous comedians he’d observed, staring down into their notebooks. He thought of how brave it was to put yourself out on the line like that, offering yourself up to an audience for that kind of judgment. 

He thought of Anthony J. Crowley’s remarkable eyes, and he wondered what it would feel like to be brave.

***

_Sunday._

Aziraphale Fell blinked his eyes open immediately and took in a deep breath.

He went about his Sunday morning as though it were any other. He made his tea, he graded book reports, he listened to Schubert. It was all rather lovely.

He ignored the reality about the very unusual thing he was set to do with his Sunday night.

At last, though, it was time to go. 

As he made his way back to the comedy club, Aziraphale really tried to imagine what it would be like to take the stage and tell jokes himself. He didn’t have much in the way of stage fright. Years and years of teaching middle school could certainly knock that fear out of a person. 

And people generally found him odd anyway. His clothes, his manner of speaking, everything about him, really. Aziraphale had learned to let that slide off of him as well. He had his books and his tea and his nice little restaurants where they knew his name. What did he really need other people for?

_So, why are you going?_ countered a terribly practical voice in his head. 

Aziraphale bit his lip as he thought about it. Gradually, he came to the conclusion that he had two goals in signing up for this class.

Firstly, he wanted to get to know Anthony J. Crowley better, though he really couldn’t tell you why just yet.

Secondly, he wanted to find out if he had anything to say.

As Aziraphale approached the club, he wondered if he’d come to the correct entrance. His confirmation e-mail had been terribly vague on proper instructions. He knocked softly at the backstage entrance, and it swung open harshly to reveal a tall man with messy, dirty blonde hair whom Aziraphale recognized from the night before.

“What do you want?” The tall comedian asked, gruffly.

“Hello,” Aziraphale responded, because someone else’s lack of manners was never any excuse for one’s own. “I’m here for the comedy class. Is this where I should be?”

The tall man took a step backwards to look Aziraphale up and down. 

“You don’t look funny,” he told Aziraphale plainly.

Aziraphale smiled at him. This man might be a fellow student after all, and it would be a long six weeks together if he couldn’t be civil.

“Well, that’s why I’m here to learn, I suppose. If you’ll excuse me, my dear fellow…” And Aziraphale sidled past the tall man who was frowning even more deeply. As he walked away, Aziraphale thought he heard “my dear fellow” uttered under the man’s breath with something like surprise and disdain.

Aziraphale took a seat in the back of the house, only now beginning to feel a little nervous. This was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done.

_“Your boyfriend in the dark glasses.”_

Aziraphale swallowed. He was a well-read, polite school teacher with a fondness for his students and for nice apple tarts. Surely he hadn’t paid actual money for a stand-up comedy class just because of some fiery red hair and a set of impossible hips.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and there he was. Once again clad in all black and wearing those sunglasses. As he lazily argued with the tall man at the door, Aziraphale took a moment to busy himself with getting out his new notebook and pencil. He wanted to look prepared, not that he was positive that preparedness would impress this grouchy, lanky comedian in the dark glasses. 

When he looked back up, that same grouchy, lanky comedian in the dark glasses was staring in his direction, mouth hanging open. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asked, and he could mean no one but Aziraphale.

Each of his new classmates turned their heads to stare in his direction as well. Part of Aziraphale wanted to stand up and shout, “I’ve as much right to be here as any of the rest of you! I paid my money! Teach me to be funny!” 

Instead he gripped his pencil a little more tightly.

_What are you doing here, Aziraphale?_ he repeated to himself.

_I’m lonely and the instructor is rather gorgeous_ is what he couldn’t bring himself to say. 

“I’m here to learn the basics of stand-up comedy,” Aziraphale answered with all the honesty he could muster.

_Send in the clowns,_ he thought to himself, feeling now like a bit of an idiot. 

_Oh, wait._

_They’re here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading!


	3. make 'em laugh, make 'em laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Crowley first Intro to Stand Up class! What could go wrong, right?

Well, _Somebody_ sure thought they were hilarious.

Crowley continued to gape at the angel, sitting there as though there was nothing at all out of the ordinary about him signing up for Crowley’s Intro to Stand Up class. Especially not the night after Crowley had practically jumped down this strange, beautiful man’s throat just for trying to be decent to him.

“You,” Crowley croaked, mouth suddenly impossibly dry. “Want to learn the basics of stand up comedy?”

The angel went a little pink around the ears and Crowley couldn’t blame him. Everyone in the class was staring at him.

“I paid my tuition fee just like everyone else,” the angel responded, rather formally, as though anything about this made any sort of sense. 

Crowley just stared. 

“Crowley!” Anathema finally called to him, not unkindly. “It’s time to get started, right?”

“Right,” Crowley managed, all of his original nerves and doubts about being able to get through this class now returning to him. He didn’t feel qualified to teach anyone, let alone the most beautiful, bizarre man he had ever seen in his entire life. 

_Gorgeous people have no business in comedy,_ Crowley thought bitterly.

“Yeah, okay,” he babbled on. “Everyone up onstage.”

His five pupils _(FUCK)_ \- Hastur, Ligur, Anathema, Nate?, and the angel- made their way onto the club’s small stage. Fuck, was it too crowded with them all up there now? Maybe he should have had them stay in the audience for this part? Fuck. Had he been supposed to get here early and turn the stage lights on? It was awfully dark up here.

Fuck.

Crowley watched them circle up on the small stage. Anathema stood there, eyes alert and ready, shoulders back, nearly defiant in her determination. Nate knocked into the mic stand as he traipsed up onto the stage and brought his notebook up with him, his thumb rubbing nervously against the spine of the thing. Hastur and Ligur… Well, they slouched. They glowered. They did what they did.

Crowley didn’t know that he necessarily had goals for this disaster-masquerading-as-a-class, but wouldn’t it be something to get Hastur and Ligur to mellow out?

And the fucking angel seemed to glow, even huddled on that tiny stage in the darkness. It was infuriating. It was incredible.

Anathema cleared her throat, gently. Crowley avoided her eyes and drew in what he hoped was an imperceptible little breath.

It had been a long time since anyone had exhibited something like faith in Anthony J. Crowley. 

“Hi, guys,” Crowley started.

“You’ve said that already,” scowled Ligur. “Teach something.”

“Yeah, building up to that, aren’t I?” Crowley countered without bothering to look at Ligur. Crowley, as usual, was endlessly grateful for his dark glasses. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the angel, trying to memorize everything about him, trying to get to the bottom of him.

_What are you doing here?_

“Perhaps we might begin with our names?” the angel suggested.

Anathema and Nate both nodded kindly while Hastur and Ligur scoffed and rolled their eyes. Crowley held up a hand to shush them.

“Right, great,” Crowley couldn’t believe he’d ever spoken in front of other humans before, let alone for money. He felt like a bloody fish out of water, gasping and desperate and terribly thirsty. Was he allowed to drink during class? Beez would never have to know. Eh, Hastur and Ligur would rat him out at the first possible opportunity. Better not.

“Well, then,” the angel smiled. “I am Aziraphale, and it is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of each and every one of you.” He nodded his head a little when he finished. Crowley wondered if he was fighting the urge to dip into a full bow.

“The rest of us already know each other,” Hastur complained.

“Yeah, but Aziraphale doesn’t,” Anathema snapped back at him. She turned to- Crowley let the name thrill through his veins and settle over his bones- Aziraphale. “Hi again, Aziraphale. I’m Anathema.” She extended a hand to him, and Aziraphale took it, looking delighted. 

Crowley swallowed. Aziraphale was even shinier when he was delighted.

“All right,” grunted Hastur. “Hastur.”

“Ligur,” growled his constant companion. 

“Charmed,” Aziraphale offered, forever generous of good will it seemed.

Hastur and Ligur both made low noises in the backs of their throats, and Crowley wondered if he had the authority to kick students out of class.

Probably didn’t get paid for them if he did.

“Um, hello,” Nate began, last and maybe least, holding up a nervous hand. “My name is Newt, and-”

“Newt!” cried out Crowley, slapping his hands together. 

“Sorry?” Newt asked, eyes wide in alarm.

“I thought your name was ‘Nate,’” Crowley confessed. “I was awfully close.”

The confession didn’t get the laugh for which he’d hoped. No, they all just stared at him. Crowley felt actual sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Why the Hell would he have ever agreed to do this? 

“Crowley?”

And it was Anathema again. Anathema who was staring at him with kind, concerned eyes. And the best bits of Crowley- buried way, way down deep under the surface- refused to let him disappoint her. Sod the rest of them. 

“Stand up comedy,” Crowley began slowly. “Well, it’s a bit funny at all that we’re in a class for it, isn’t it?”

Hastur and Ligur remained unmoved. Anathema nodded a little in encouragement. Newt was already writing everything down, the poor bastard.

The angel…

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale just watched him, politely. That’s what he thought he was meant to do anywhere, Crowley observed. Yes, Aziraphale regarded Crowley now with the same attention that he probably gave the opera. Crowley hated it. Once again, he was possessed with the desire to startle the angel into leaving, into going back to his fancy little box with his fancy little theatre binoculars or whatever the fuck you call them…

_Don’t let this thing drag you down. Any of you._

Fuck. 

“What’s funny to me isn’t going to be what’s funny to you,” Crowley continued, desperate to remember anything any good comedian had ever told him over the years. “So, it’s all about looking inside, you know?”

They just stared at him. 

(Because they didn’t know. That’s why they were in class.)

Fuck, what else was he supposed to say? _You’re either funny or you’re not. Thank you for your money. Class dismissed._

“The, er, art of stand-up comedy,” he continued. _“Art?” Fuck off._ “Well, got really popular in the 50s and 60s, didn’t it?”

Most of the circle nodded their vague assent to that thrilling fact. Aziraphale, however, _raised his fucking hand._

“What is it, Aziraphale?” Crowley gestured for him to lower his hand.

“I only wanted to note that the origins of oral comedy actually span as far back as ancient times,” Aziraphale offered, his eyes fucking twinkling with excitement. “In fact, one of the Muses was Thalia, the goddess who presided over comedy and idyllic poetry.”

And then he looked expectantly around the circle as though he were waiting for everyone else to break into enthusiastic agreement and a deep, cozy conversation about all the damn Muses. Crowley’s heart broke a little for Aziraphale as he watched him realize that no one else was especially excited about Thalia or idyllic poetry.

Right then. Enough for history. 

“Coffee girl!” Crowley finally barked at Anathema. He knew she could handle being first. Not that he cared. “What’s a thing that bothers you?”

“The system,” Anathema answered right away. “Did you know that nuclear power plants-”

“That’s not funny,” Hastur argued immediately, groaning. “That’s just boring and preachy. No one wants to hear about that.”

“Interesting,” Anathema countered coolly. “Because I seem to recall hearing actual laughter over my boring preachiness last night whereas your tired bullshit…”

“Break it up, break it up,” Crowley clapped his hands together, secretly glowing with pride for Anathema. “And, Hastur, shut up. First of all, she’s right. Second of all, we’re not trying to be funny yet. We’re… it’s an exercise. So, what bothers you?”

He regretted asking before the question had fully left his mouth.

Because Hastur had settled that intense stare back on Aziraphale who continued to stand there, polite as anything.

“Fussy gits,” Hastur answered.

Ligur growled his agreement. 

Crowley wanted to strangle them both. It wouldn’t be hard to do what with them being mashed up like sardines on that tiny stage. _Why sign up for this class if you hate me so much?_

“Nate!” Crowley ignored them for the moment. “What bothers you?”

“It’s Newt,” Newt reminded him, nervously.

“Right! Perfect!” There it was. A hook for Crowley to use. A good example that wasn’t going to start a damn fight. “And what bothers you about me getting it wrong?”

Newt looked immediately panicked. “But I didn’t say that’s what bothered me.” 

“Ah, but come on,” Crowley prodded. “Must be driving you insane. I mean, I’ve _met you before._ Dozens of times! It doesn’t bother you that I keep fucking up your name?”

“It… it’s not the first time,” Newt admitted, looking down at the floor.

“Right,” Crowley answered, fighting the urge to slam his head into the nearest wall. “Ngk.”

Beez was going to kill him. And he was probably going to deserve it. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley finally turned his attention back to the angel. “Your turn.”

And Crowley expected the angel to take his time and answer very carefully and deliberately, so was rather taken aback when the angel immediately blurted out:

“People who bend the spines of rare books! No! People who bend the spines of any books!” 

Aziraphale looked around the circle with that same eagerness he’d shown for the Muses. As though he was searching for any validation that this was indeed a grievance worth his angelic annoyance. He was met with mostly blank stares, some more generous than others.

Crowley couldn’t even remember the point of this fucking exercise in the first place. His confidence had dwindled with each student’s answer. This was entirely ridiculous. This couldn’t possibly be worth whatever Beez was paying him. 

Crowley chanced a glance at this watch.

Fuck.

They’d been going at it for barely an hour. The “What Bothers You?” thing had been his only real plan, but, with only the five of them, it hadn’t taken nearly as long as he’d anticipated. 

Fuck.

“Homework!” Crowley yelled.

“Class isn’t over yet!” Hastur protested. “And you were late!”

“Well, field work, then, I don’t care,” Crowley snapped back, losing any kind teacherly persona that he’d tried to fake at the beginning of class. “With this last hour, go out and do some observing. Notice things that make you laugh, notice things that make you angry, notice everything. Be prepared to report back in class next week. Yeah?”

Newt was the first one to return to his belongings out in the house, evidently eager to be sent off on any sort of mission. Hastur and Ligur continued to grumble but they eventually made their way out the doors.

Anathema…

Crowley would remember the look in her eyes for a long time. He wanted to stop her before she left, wanted to explain himself to her, wanted to assure her he’d do better next time, he was just off his game after last night, he just…

Fuck.

_You won’t do better next time. And she isn’t your friend. Who the fuck cares?_

As he made up his mind that surely teachers were allowed to pour themselves a post-class drink from the blessedly unsupervised bar, he felt a soft tap at his shoulder. He whirled around to find-

“Hello.”

FUCK.

“Aziraphale,” the angel gestured to himself when Crowley didn’t immediately respond.

“Yeah, no, I know who you are,” Crowley responded. 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale stood there, hands folded in front of his middle. A thousand scenarios played across Crowley’s mind: _I should apologize for the other night. Hell, I should apologize for tonight. (Why do I suddenly have so many people to apologize to?) I should offer him his money back. I should tell him to fuck off._

_I should ask him out._

The ease of that last thought made color rise in Crowley’s cheeks. No. Absolutely not. Aziraphale wasn’t just a weirdo, he was a _weirdo student._ Probably unethical. Definitely unethical. Not happening. Off limits. 

Fuck.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, wretchedly curious to know.

“Forgive me for saying so,” Aziraphale answered. “But, well, I have been a professional educator for nearly my entire life. You’re clearly a very skilled comedian, but I was wondering if I could be of any use to you in terms of… well, planning your curriculum.”

“Curriculum.” There was that damn word again.

“What are you saying, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, eyes narrowing, voice lowering. Oh, this felt good and familiar down in his guts. Gearing up for something like a fight. He’d show Aziraphale for being foolish enough to trust him.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale replied, clearly flustered now. “Tonight was lovely, I assure you. Only… well, only it seems like you ran out of things for us to do. We are scheduled to be here for another hour, you see-”

Crowley hauled himself out of his chair and rose to his full height. He was only a bit taller than Aziraphale, but he was frustrated and confused and angry and that counted for something.

“You think I don’t know how long class lasts?” Crowley hissed. _What are you doing?!_ screamed a voice in the back of his brain. “You think I can’t tell the time? What, just because I’m a lowly stand-up comedian that must mean I’m also a complete idiot, is that it, _Aziraphale?_ ”

Aziraphale huffed a little, and, to Crowley’s surprise, he didn’t back down. “Yes, you’re very intimidating, but the point stands that you need my help. Are you going to accept it or not?”

Crowley stood there a beat longer, chest nearly heaving, still bearing down on the kind, beautiful man before him.

It had been a long time since anyone had exhibited something like faith in Anthony J. Crowley. 

“Yeah, all right,” Crowley finally said.

It’s not like things could possibly get any worse.

***

Oh.

Oh, they were worse. So much worse.

In lieu of any better ideas, Crowley had allowed himself to be dragged back to the Jasmine Cottage. Thankfully, Anathema seemed to have the night off.

_Well, yeah, she thought she’d be in class for two hours tonight,_ Crowley reminded himself, self-loathing gnawing at his bones.

“Do you come here frequently?” Aziraphale asked. He didn’t like silence, Crowley had noticed. Aziraphale had found things to chatter on about the entire way here. He was like a nervous little bird creature. Crowley wanted to wrap his hands around those coat-covered shoulders and hold him steady.

_You’re okay, angel_ is what he couldn’t say. Because why should anyone, let alone Aziraphale, believe him?

“Once or twice,” Crowley muttered, hands shoved into his pockets. He felt nervous himself as he strode alongside Aziraphale, trying hard to put out of mind the rather unangelic fantasies he’d allowed himself about the man the night before.

_Yeah, this is weird._

_Yeah, well, who would have thought we’d ever see him again?!_

“Did you know that Anathema works here?” Aziraphale went on as he held the door open for Crowley. “I think she’s really rather lovely.” 

“Lovely,” Crowley repeated. _And she’s never going to speak to you again._ “Sure.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale as he made his way up to the counter to warmly greet the non-Anathema. He was fucking _peculiar._ Yeah, that was the word. He was just so fucking radiant about everything. Crowley had never seen anyone light up like the sun over a gateau basque before, but there he was. Ordering it from non-Anathema and shining like a Christmas tree.

“It’s probably old, you know. All stale and stuff,” Crowley said about the dessert as they sat down. _Why are you like this? Fuck._

“Oh, I know” Aziraphale said, fucking _wiggling_ as he sank down into his chair. “I feel awfully sad for the end-of-the-day pastries, you know? Everyone should get to be enjoyed.”

And Aziraphale proceeded to daintily collect a bit of the jammy nonsense on his fork before lifting it to his lips.

Now, Crowley had been a stand-up comedian for nearly twenty years. He’d even had a bit of a Moment in the 90s, if you can call it that. He wasn’t worth much, but he prided himself on his ability to observe other people. To craft the perfect words for whatever they were about, for whatever they were up to. Anthony J. Crowley would have snarled if you’d called him “eloquent,” but he was good with words. 

There you are.

The noise that came out of Aziraphale’s mouth as he tasted the first bite of his dessert was something for which Crowley had no words. 

It wasn’t quite a moan. Wasn’t quite a gasp. Wasn’t quite a sigh. It was some Holy Trinity among the three and, on the one hand, Crowley was horribly embarrassed that Aziraphale had made it out loud in public. On the other hand, however, Crowley was more horribly embarrassed for himself to discover that the sound travelled straight to his now very-alert prick. 

Words entirely failed Crowley and he just sat there and watched (like a _creep_ ) as Aziraphale lovingly swallowed that first bite. Crowley remained silent and captivated as Aziraphale went in for his second and third bites. He finally caught Crowley’s eye as though nothing at all strange had just happened, and pushed the little plate in his direction.

“Would you like a bite? It’s really quite marvelous.”

Crowley just shook his head at the offer. He absolutely should have slammed back at least one whiskey before agreeing to do this.

“Now,” Aziraphale clapped his hands on his thighs, drawing Crowley’s attention to them. Crowley felt his eyes get a bit wider as he took in the sight of those gorgeous thighs ever so slightly spread apart and filling up Aziraphale’s chair. Crowley wondered what they would feel like beneath his fingers... 

Blissfully unaware of the lust he was provoking, Aziraphale went on:

“To the matter at hand.”

Crowley snapped to attention. “Right,” he responded, feeling terribly stupid and more than a bit ashamed. “What’ve you got, angel? I’m all ears.”

“You gave homework tonight,” Aziraphale reminded him. “What do you intend to do with it?”

Shame crept up the back of Crowley’s neck. He didn’t want to admit to Aziraphale that the whole “homework” idea had just been him panicking and trying to cover his ass. Crowley wished he could have a bite of that tart now. Anything else to do with his stupid, big mouth.

“Well,” he began. “Well, your observations’ll be sort of the building blocks of jokes, right? That was the idea of asking you all what bothers you, anyway.”

“An excellent start,” Aziraphale replied, kindly. It was almost too much. Crowley was starting to feel twitchy. It was like getting applause before he’d told a joke. 

_Don’t be nice to me, angel. You don’t know what I’ve done._

“What is your goal for us?” Aziraphale asked. Were his eyes blue or more grey? Whatever they were, they were currently piercing. He meant business when it came to teaching, this strange angel creature.

“There’s the showcase for the last class,” Crowley answered. 

“And what do you hope happens at the showcase?”

Crowley frowned. He hadn’t really “hoped” that anything would happen at the showcase. He’d agreed to do this class in the first place for the extra money and then promptly forgotten about it, after all. Not really a lot of time in there for hope. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Crowley admitted, feeling more and more like a fool under Aziraphale’s clever gaze.

“Well, for an example,” Aziraphale went on. There was the tiniest hint of jam lingering at the corner of his mouth. “My students recently wrote and delivered book reports. My goals were that they enjoyed their experience of reading the book, and that they reached a new level in comfort with public speaking in the act of discussing what they’d read.”

Crowley didn’t really know what to say about book reports, so he kept listening.

“What do you want from us?” Aziraphale asked, and it sounded so simple like that.

“I…” Crowley felt the answer forming on his tongue, and he fucking hated it but he also felt like he couldn’t lie to Aziraphale. That it wouldn’t matter even if he tried, because those eyes would see right through him. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted.

“I want to know what you want,” Crowley answered, because it was the truth. “You all paid good money to have your time wasted by me. How can I make it okay?”

Aziraphale smiled at that. “I’d hardly consider it time wasted, my dear.”

“What do you want, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s smile stayed put, but there was a hint of sadness behind it now. “I think that perhaps I’m the wrong person to ask, Anthony. I’m still not sure.”

_“Call me when you figure it out.”_ Crowley winced a little as he remembered his own unkind words from the night before. Aziraphale didn’t owe him any answers. None of them did. He owed them his experience and time. That’s what they’d signed up for.

Fuck. Crowley wanted to crawl out of his skin. Maybe melt into a pile of goo on the floor. Something. Anything. Fuck. 

Crowley groaned. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale.”

“No need to apologize, Anthony.”

“Crowley.”

And there was that pure Aziraphale smile again.

“Crowley,” he repeated softly. As though it was something lovely to say

And Crowley didn’t think he really deserved the aid of an angel, but fuck, he had it and look, it’s not that he cared, he really didn’t, but the memory of Anathema’s disappointment was clawing at his lower intestines and fuck, what would it feel like to get something right finally?

“How can I not fuck up this class, Aziraphale?” 

“You need to put some thought into your time management, for a start. Consider what your students might already know,” Aziraphale patted the corner of his mouth with a napkin and Crowley mourned. “I do believe that everyone in that little bunch has some stage experience already, after all. I remember the other four from your show last night.”

“And what about you?” Crowley leaned forward a little. 

“Well, I’m a teacher, my dear,” Aziraphale’s smile was nervous now. “It’s a little bit like performing. We certainly get our fair share of talkative patrons.”

“There’s something else,” Crowley pressed. 

“I may have used to… tread the boards a time or two. A long time ago,” Aziraphale looked down now at the remainder of his tart. 

“‘Tread the boards?’” Crowley frowned. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Really, Crowley, it’s a common expression. I was an actor once. The classics, primarily. Shakespeare, Ibsen, Chekov.”

“Well, all right, Sir Laurence Olivier, then what are you doing in my class? Hardly classical stuff.”

_What are you doing here, angel?_

Aziraphale swallowed another mouthful of tart and set his fork back down. His fingers drummed a little nervously against his knees as he considered his answer. 

“I suppose I miss it. Being on a stage. Teaching is a little like performing, I suppose, but there’s nothing like the thrill of the stage.”

“Why’d you give it up?” Crowley leaned his chin down atop his interlaced hands. “Just couldn't cut it?”

_WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?_

“I’ll have you know that I was quite good,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I had the opportunity once to join the Royal Shakespeare Company, but I… I gave it all up.”

For the second time in Aziraphale’s presence that night, Crowley’s jaw dropped.

“You what?”

“I gave it up,” Aziraphale repeated, fingers trembling a bit as he retrieved his fork and plunged it back into his tart.

For a moment, they sat in silence: Aziraphale with his tart and his trembling, and Crowley with complete disbelief coursing through him.

“Why?” Crowley finally breathed, more quietly than he’d intended. Crowley remembered his one shot at what he Really Wanted. Remembered what he’d given up to get there. For an actor to turn down the RSC…

_Who are you, angel?_

Aziraphale seemed suddenly shy, eyes darting nervously between Crowley and the crumbs on his plate. “Well, it’s an unpredictable life as I’m sure you know. And teaching is a perfectly respectable profession. The world doesn’t need another old white man spouting Shakespeare, Crowley. But my students do need me. They deserve someone who cares. And I do. Quite a lot, actually.”

The mention of his students seemed to spark something in Aziraphale because he suddenly drew a _fucking pocket watch_ out from his _fucking waistcoat_ and flicked his eyes over it.

“Speaking of my students, I really must get a wiggle on,” Aziraphale admitted.

“What?”

“Well, it’s getting a bit late, you see, and I have book reports-”

“No, yeah, I got that. It was the ‘get a wiggle on.’”

Aziraphale smiled a little, dipping his head in that nervous way he did. “Perhaps we could do this again sometime? I do have more pedagogical thoughts for you, if you’d be interested.”

_“Curriculum” and now “pedagogical.” Bugger this entire weekend._

But Crowley was interested. So, he held out a hand across the table to Aziraphale. The angel looked briefly surprised and almost as though he didn’t know what to do with it. But, finally, he took Crowley’s hand in his own. His skin was warm and soft, which Crowley pretended not to notice as he shook Aziraphale’s hand. 

Yeah.

Yeah, it was worse.

***

Crowley walked into his dark flat, too stunned to even make a sarcastic remark.

What the fuck had just happened?

He made his way into his bedroom and sat down on the bed. Let’s see. An inventory of the past two days:

_Step One: Bomb at open mic night. Make a complete fool of yourself. Lose to a bald heckler._

_Step Two: Meet the most beautiful, odd man in existence. Bite his head off._

_Step Three: Bomb during class. Get Anathema to hate you._

_Step Four: Agree to receive help from Aziraphale._

_Step Five: Nearly come in your fucking pants in the middle of a coffee shop just from watching this idiot eat a blackberry tart._

Perfect. Everything was going according to plan. 

And Crowley was hard again, he was, at the thought of beautiful, kind, clever, bonkers Aziraphale. At the memory of those full, pretty lips wrapping so contentedly around that fork. At the thought of that _sound_ he’d made. At the knowledge that Aziraphale was the kind of person who’d given up a life on the stage in favor of helping young people. 

But his arousal was overshadowed by a pang deep down in his guts. By a desire deeper and more terrifying to admit to himself.

_Maybe he could be my friend._

Crowley stared at his wall for a long minute, challenging himself to exist in that reality. He didn’t really have anyone he could call a friend, after all. He had Twitter, and they didn’t seem terribly excited about him lately anyway. Crowley sat on his bed and he felt hopeful and determined which in turn made him feel a little small and stupid.

He did not reach for himself that night, did not bring himself off to the thought of a mouth that tasted of sugar and lemon. 

No.

Anthony J. Crowley coiled himself up in bed with his notebook and he began to write. He didn’t write down any jokes, and he didn’t really even write any notes for his upcoming classes, though he knew he should have.

No.

That night, Anthony J. Crowley wrote a lot about a beautiful creature named Aziraphale and a little about hope. 

***

_Monday morning._

Crowley pushed through the doors to Jasmine Cottage as soon as they opened for the day. He’d set an alarm and everything. Nervous hands shoved into his pockets, he strode straight to the counter before he could talk himself out of it.

Anathema folded her arms across her chest and waited.

“Morning, Coffee Girl.”

She tilted her head to one side, expectantly. He sighed a beleaguered sigh.

“Starshine?”

She shook her head.

_Okay. We’re really doing this._

“Good morning, Anathema.”

“What do you want, Crowley?”

“No,” Crowley set his hands down on the counter. “No. That’s my whole point.” (He had not slept much.) “What do you want, Anathema? From my class?”

Her expression softened. She turned away from him and started fiddling about making a drink as she thought about her answer. The awful anticipation combined with the lack of sleep made Crowley feel a little like he was going to pass out right then and there.

When she finally returned her attention to him:

“Crowley, I’m already funny. I’m not worried about that. But I want to get better. I want a safe place to workshop my stuff. I want prompts and ideas and I want us to come up with jokes all together. Stand-up is so fucking lonely sometimes.”

She paused to snap a lid on top of the to-go cup in front of her. 

“I just want to work on jokes with my friends.”

She slid the cup to him. 

“Right,” Crowley finally muttered back at her. “I’m sorry none of your friends signed up for my class, then.”

“Tony,” Anathema nudged the cup closer to him. “Take your fucking mocha and go figure out what we’re doing next Sunday, okay?” 

And Crowley felt the familiar urge to fight, to tangle, to be a dick, but he willed himself to shove it down with the promises of friendship and chocolate-coffee suddenly before him. 

“Okay.”

Anathema smiled at him. “And thank you for visiting the Jasmine Cottage, sir.”

“You’re… you’re welcome.”

Crowley took the mocha and turned around to walk back out into the daylight. 

He was going to buy some fucking curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! My goal for this story is to post on Tuesdays and Fridays, but life is very wacky, so we shall see if I can keep that up!


	4. it's a little bit funny (this feeling inside)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale Fell: mild-mannered school teacher by day, hungry stand-up comedy student by night, or: Much Ado About Bravery.

Oh, dear.

As Aziraphale closed the door to his bedroom behind him, he closed his eyes and brought a hand up to his heart.

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

He hadn’t meant to tell Crowley so much. He hadn’t meant to come across as a pompous idiot and act as though he knew more about teaching than he did. (Though, well, he did.) He hadn’t meant to eat an entire dessert in front of him or smile so fondly at him or reveal that he used to be an actor.

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

He sucked in a deep breath and held it for five counts before exhaling it slowly through his mouth. In addition to being odd and fussy, Azraphale was accustomed to being nervous. 

Especially around handsome, grouchy stand-up comedians, apparently.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?” Crowley had asked him.

Aziraphale sat down on his bed and pulled open the drawer of his nightstand. He fished around for a moment before he found what he was looking for. An old, faded theatre program from nearly twenty years ago. 

His last show before bidding the stage farewell.

Aziraphale traced his fingers lightly over the thin paper. _Romeo & Juliet,_ it had been. He hadn’t been a Romeo or a Mercutio, no, not even twenty years ago. No, even when he’d been good, no one had taken Aziraphale Fell seriously as a lover.

_“The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,”_ Aziraphale recited. He remembered every word as though it were yesterday.

Aziraphale loved his current life. Loved his students, loved his books, loved his baked treats. 

Loved that he wasn’t afraid.

Well, _as_ afraid.

He remembered being an actor. The highest highs and the lowest lows, sometimes all on the same day. Aziraphale didn’t particularly make a habit of places like carnivals, but he thought sometimes of his former life as having been on a particularly rickety roller coaster over and over and over again.

His life now was a merry-go-round. It was nice and steady, and Aziraphale could see the ups and downs coming. 

It was nice. 

Aziraphale thought about Crowley.

He imagined the tall, spinning swings at the carnival. He imagined the same comfortable certainty of knowing where he was going. He imagined the thrill of twirling. He imagined the weightless feeling of being up that high. 

Of trusting that he could be up that high without falling. 

Aziraphale breathed.

_“Wisely and slow,”_ he whispered to himself. _“They stumble that run fast.”_

***

Aziraphale arrived at school the next morning and tried to go about business as usual. When he first strolled into his classroom, he peeked in on his class’ pet right away.

“Well, hello, Harry,” Aziraphale reached into the rabbit’s habitat to stroke his soft fur. “And how was your weekend, my dear?”

As Aziraphale went about preparing Harry’s breakfast, he filled Harry in on the particulars of his own awfully eventful weekend.

“And do you know, Harry? He’s awfully cross and sour at first, but I think, deep down, he’s rather nice.”

“Talking to bunnies again, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale turned around to find Uriel and Sandalphon standing in the doorway to his classroom.

“Oh,” Aziraphale swallowed, that familiar nervous feeling twisting his belly. “Good morning.”

“Teaching some _Alice in Wonderland_ today?” Sandalphon grinned.

“I beg your pardon?”

Sandalphon gestured at Aziraphale and Harry. “I mean, come on! You’ve got the March Hare and the Mad Hatter right here!”

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

“How can I help you two?” Aziraphale attempted to swerve right past the Mad Hatter comment, but:

“Oh, lighten up, Aziraphale,” Uriel rolled her eyes. “It’s just a joke.”

_Well, I don’t think it’s a very clever one,_ Aziraphale wanted to say.

“Yeah, we thought you might be a little funnier after talking to your new friend.”

Aziraphale hated Sandalphon’s smile. There was too much tooth to it. As if that grin could turn into a bite at any moment.

“How did it go, by the way?” Uriel wanted to know.

A part of Aziraphale longed to answer. Longed to spill his guts about the ( _breathe_ ) crush he had on Anthony J. Crowley. Longed to confide in someone that, in a fit of something like madness, he’d signed up to take a stand-up comedy class.

But there’s laughing with someone, and there’s laughing at someone. Aziraphale was new to the world of comedy, but he knew that at least.

“Lovely to see you both,” Aziraphale strode forward and closed the door on the pair of them.

He had a rabbit to feed and a class to teach. 

***

For the next four weeks, it went like this:

During the week, Aziraphale followed his familiar patterns. He went to school, he taught his students, he graded homework, he smiled politely in the teachers’ lounge and then went about his business.

On Saturdays, Aziraphale _devoured._

Aziraphale woke with the sun on Saturdays, fixed his breakfast, and got to work; watching as much comedy as he could find, taking notes on different comics’ styles, cadences, everything. He went to the park, to the bookshop, to the sushi place, and he observed. He wrote it all down, and wondered what within his musings would make an audience laugh. 

Wondered what would make Crowley laugh.

He became a regular at the 9th Circle Saturday open mic. He drank his minimum two drinks and he cheered for the nervous comics and he tried not to let his eyes shimmer with longing whenever Crowley was onstage.

Crowley must have spotted him in the audience that second weekend because, after the show, he sauntered over to Aziraphale.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Crowley greeted him, and Aziraphale was relieved to hear as much pleasure in Crowley’s voice as he’d ever heard before.

“Yes, hello,” Aziraphale smiled. “How’s your curriculum coming along for tomorrow evening?”

Crowley threw his head back and groaned. “Oh, come on, I just got off the stage. Give a bloke a chance to breathe.”

“The merits to be had from a fine education wait for no man,” Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley gawked at him. “I don’t know what any of those words mean in that order.”

“All the more reason you need my help.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whereto?”

“To the Jasmine Cottage!” Aziraphale exclaimed, excitedly.

As he had been a week ago, he was a little surprised that Crowley actually followed him. 

They settled into their chairs from nearly a week ago. Aziraphale set down his slice of strawberry-lavender cake and his cup of tea and fished in his bag for his notebook. Crowley withdrew his own battered-looking book from his pocket.

How anything was able to fit in there, Aziraphale would never understand.

“All right,” Aziraphale took a deep swig of tea to ready himself. “What have you thought about since we last spoke?”

“When you’re up onstage, the audience wants to learn something about you,” Crowley offered right away. Aziraphale smiled. He’d clearly been working on that answer. Aziraphale recognized a pupil who wanted to do a good job.

“Get personal,” Aziraphale scribbled down in his notes. “Wonderful.”

“Yeah,” Crowley went on. “It’s all about revealing your darkest, deepest stuff. That usually ends up being the funniest. Tragedy plus time… whatever it is.”

“Deep… dark…” Aziraphale continued to write. “Spooky stuff.”

“What can I say? Big spooky fan, me.”

Aziraphale brought the tip of the pen to his mouth as he pondered his own deep, dark stuff.

“I was arrested in France once,” Aziraphale offered. Crowley nearly spit out his coffee.

“You what?!”

“It was really all a misunderstanding,” Aziraphale explained hurriedly. “You see, I was there for some crepes…”

Crowley stopped him. “Write this down, you loon.”

“Whatever for?”

“Aziraphale, I don’t even know the entire story yet, but the idea of _you,_ ” Crowley gestured to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale wasn’t certain yet how it made him feel. “The idea of you getting arrested in a foreign country over snacks is already one of the funniest set-ups I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not a criminal, you know.”

“I know! That’s what’s funny about it! I’m trying to imagine you in jail. Tell me it was an even more ridiculous outfit than this one. Tell me there were frills.”

Aziraphale smiled. He had a sneaking suspicion that he was being laughed with instead of at.

It was nice. 

“What else?” Aziraphale prompted.

Crowley consulted his own notebook. “Ask questions.”

“Questions about what?”

“Everything!” Crowley threw up his hands. “Ask questions about everything. Yeah. Make lists and ask questions.”

“That sounds like a good framework for an exercise for class.”

Crowley grinned at that. So far Aziraphale had found the man terribly handsome while snarling, growling, and even hissing. His smile, lopsided like the rest of him, was quite nearly too much.

“What else?”

“Well, I was thinking about the different kinds of jokes, you know?”

Aziraphale brightened. “Do you mean like stories versus one-liners?”

Crowley clinked a spoon against his coffee cup. “Spot on, angel.”

_Angel._

Aziraphale blushed a brilliant crimson and went to rescue his cake plate and his tea cup as Crowley nearly upended the entire table in a mortified panic.

“Sorry,” he groaned. “I’m… it’s not… you… I’m big on nicknames?”

Aziraphale nodded and plucked the strawberry garnish off of his cake, eager to look interested in anything else. Because he was a quick student, that Aziraphale Fell. He had only been deeply observing others for about a week. Normal people didn’t nearly flip over tables over meaningless nicknames. 

Not that there was anything normal about Anthony J. Crowley.

Aziraphale dared to glance up at the man. His face was practically as red as his hair and his long fingers were gripping the still-wobbling table. Aziraphale wished he could see Crowley’s eyes. He was quickly learning that eyes revealed an awful lot about a person.

What was the expression? “Eyes are the windows to the soul.” 

(Aziraphale was positive that Crowley had one.)

“You’ve said it before, you know,” Aziraphale pointed out, looking at his tea.

Crowley’s face contorted further in horror. “Have I?”

“The first night we met. It wasn’t a very nice nickname that time.”

Crowley slunk into his seat as though he hoped the cushions of it might swallow him entirely. 

“I’ve never had a nickname before,” Aziraphale ventured, not certain whether or not he was supposed to drop the subject entirely. “Why ‘angel?’”

Crowley flung up his hands in a sort of gesture at Aziraphale. They were lovely, those long, expressive hands.

“Look at you!” Crowley practically shouted. That was another thing Aziraphale was noticing. Crowley had very little of what Aziraphale would refer to as an “inside voice.”

“What about the way I look?” Aziraphale asked as innocently as possible. I mean, he got it. He wore a lot of light colors and he was very pleasant.

But he wanted to hear what Crowley would say.

Crowley sputtered a little at that. Aziraphale was on the verge of steering them to another topic when Crowley finally found his voice:

“Well, I’ve never seen an angel before, have I?”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “I suppose not.”

“Well, I’ve never seen anyone like you either,” Crowley said, voice a little furious. 

Aziraphale looked away, but not before a beaming smile spread over his face. He darted his eyes shyly at Crowley.

“I suppose I should say ‘thank you?’ For the compliment?”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley groaned. “If my lot hear I’ve been giving out compliments…”

He made another flustered gesture.

“I’ll forget you ever said anything,” Aziraphale promised. (He wouldn’t. No, he’d press “angel” to his heart like a flower in a book.)

“Thanks.”

“Well, all right then, in your words, Crowley, what is the foundation of a good one liner?”

For the next four weeks, it went like that. 

***

By their penultimate class, Aziraphale privately thought that Crowley might actually be proud of them. Not that he’d dare speak it aloud.

(All right, all right: let’s get you caught up. Saturday nights poring over comedy theory at Jasmine Cottage turned into Saturday and Sunday nights at Jasmine Cottage. Turned into Tuesdays after school in St. James’ Park. Turned into the night that Crowley turned up at Aziraphale’s flat with a bottle of wine and a stack of _Fawlty Towers_ DVDs.)

(Turned into the exchange of teasing text messages and the offering of rides home. Turned into Crowley knowing what to order for Aziraphale on the occasion that he turned up at Jasmine Cottage before him.)

Aziraphale didn’t know exactly what was happening or where they were going, but he found that he wasn’t as terribly concerned as he would have imagined once upon a time. He and Crowley were friends, of that he was certain. Perhaps that was enough. He’d certainly never fathomed that this much was possible.

And Aziraphale was… doing well in class? He was discovering that comedy was a little bit like music. One could learn by ear. All the time he was spending in his research combined with his classtime combined with his time with Crowley, Aziraphale was starting to hear the rhythms of jokes. The crescendos and the accents. There was no real formula, no perfect equation that came out to “Funny,” but there were patterns and there were clues and Aziraphale found himself proud at his ability to recognize them.

Not that it did anything to quiet his nerves about the upcoming graduation showcase. It was one thing to practice his material in front of his strange classmates and his stranger teacher. Aziraphale thought of telling one of his lovingly crafted bits only to be met with silence from an audience and his stomach lurched.

This was scarier than Shakespeare. If an audience member didn’t like the play, Aziraphale had plenty of other culprits on whom to pin the blame. (Mainly Shakespeare.) Comedy was going to be entirely him. His thoughts, his words, his voice.

_Just one more week,_ whispered a theoretically encouraging voice in his head. _And then this will all be over!_

Aziraphale’s stomach lurched at that too. Being scared wasn’t the same as being ready for this to be over. 

They stood in their squashed circle onstage at the 9th Circle Club a week before their showcase. Aziraphale realized that he had drifted off into his own thoughts while Crowley had delivered a rather spectacular lecture on “heightening mechanisms,” and now:

“Dismissed, guys,” Crowley clapped his hands and waved them offstage. 

“Classmates!” Anathema announced as the rest of them filed away. Everyone turned back to look at her.

“We’re going out tonight.”

She pointed an accusing finger at Crowley.

“You can’t come.”

“It’s my bloody class!” Crowley protested as Hastur and Ligur clapped and laughed. 

“Which is precisely why you can’t come,” Anathema explained, simply. “Our show is next week, and we need to bond and gossip about you, obviously.”

Crowley scowled at her but Aziraphale thought he noted just a bit of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Aziraphale liked that Crowley liked Anathema. It was sweet. It reminded him of how he felt about his own students.

Still. A night out with the rest of the class _without Crowley?_ Aziraphale felt a familiar panic rising in his chest. Anathema and Newt had always been perfectly decent to him though he was certain that they found him odd. Hastur and Ligur had perhaps stopped being quite so openly hostile, but Aziraphale still didn’t think he could really consider himself their cup of tea.

Or their dram of poison, really.

“Are you going?” Crowley turned to him. His glasses had slid a little bit down his nose and Aziraphale could just make out a flash of gold.

Crowley’s eyes always made Aziraphale want to be brave.

“Do you know, I think I’ll pop in for a spell,” Aziraphale answered, hoping that Crowley would like that answer.

Crowley put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, if Hastur or Ligur gets out of line, you call me, angel, yeah?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, fighting to think of anything clever to say while Crowley was touching him. “Thank you, my dear. I’ll do that.”

“Aziraphale!” Anathema bellowed, striding forward to him and looping her arm through his. “It’s time to go.”

Aziraphale looked once more at Crowley. Crowley seemed to take a minute, absorbing the sight of Aziraphale and Anathema together. Something softened on those grouchy features as he said:

“Have fun out there, kids.”

And he flicked his fingers at them in a kind of salute and turned to saunter out of the club. Aziraphale watched him go. A blush stole over his face as he realized how many nights it had been since he had not been in Crowley’s company. Aziraphale wanted to be bold and commanding like Anathema had been. 

_“Stop, Crowley! You’re coming with us tonight after all, because you make places more fun, you cranky old fiend.”_

Anathema tugged at his arm a little and, when he turned to look at her, she was smiling at him rather too knowingly. 

“You heard what he said, Aziraphale. Let’s go have some fun.”

***

The situation at the bar… escalated quickly.

After an introductory round of shots, Anathema stood up and proposed a toast.

“All right, distinguished classmates,” she tapped her pint glass with a knife. “We don’t ever have to tell him about it, but let’s give it up to Crowley.”

“To Crowley!” Aziraphale and Newt cheered immediately. Hastur and Ligur, as was their custom, just made disgruntled noises under their breaths. Anathema slammed down her pint glass, beer sloshing all over the table.

“Okay, you two,” she placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. “What’s the deal?”

Aziraphale and Newt, united in awkwardness, turned to Hastur and Ligur. To Aziraphale’s surprise, the pair of them looked rather flummoxed. 

“What are you talking about?” growled Ligur.

Now that the matter was literally on the table, Aziraphale found that he was also terribly curious.

“I believe that Anathema wants to know what you’re doing in our class,” he began. “If you hate Crowley so much.”

“Hate Crowley?” sputtered Hastur.

“We don’t hate Crowley!” Ligur protested.

“Guys!” Anathema cried. “You pick at Crowley _constantly._ ”

“And me, for that matter,” Aziraphale pressed his luck.

“And me,” Newt agreed, lifting up a hand in solidarity.

Hastur and Ligur stared at the other three for a moment, turned to look at one another, and turned _back_ to the rest of the group, apparently speechless.

“Well?” Anathema pressed.

“We… we like you,” Hastur grumbled. 

“All of you,” Ligur agreed.

Anathema, Aziraphale, and Newt, all in unison:

“WHAT?”

“We’re comedians!” Hastur protested. “We’re just taking the piss!”

“You’re being mean,” Newt dared. “It’s not the same thing.”

“And it’s not funny,” Aziraphale backed Newt up, the poor dear.

“And since when are you an expert on ‘funny,’ Aziraphale?” Hastur sneered, but-

“There!” Anathema slammed her hands back on the table. “Right there! You’re being an asshole! Being an asshole isn’t some magic formula for being funny! Knock it off!”

Hastur and Ligur (all of them really) gaped at her. She picked up her dripping pint glass and took a triumphant swig. 

“Now,” she said. “Everybody. Bond.”

She sank into the booth and began to chat at a relieved and stunned Newt about the plight of baby seals. Aziraphale sipped awkwardly at his gin and tonic, feeling the confusion radiating off of the two men sitting to his right.

“We’re sorry,” Hastur finally grunted.

Aziraphale choked on his drink.

“Pardon?”

“We’re sorry,” Ligur repeated. 

“We don’t like it when new comics turn up,” Hastur’s eyes were fixed firmly on the porter in front of him.

“Especially new comics who are good,” Ligur added, also determinedly looking anywhere but at Aziraphale’s face.

Crowley had said to call if Hastur and Ligur got out of line, but this turn of events was far more alarming in Aziraphale’s mind.

“Why did you two sign up for the Level One class?” Aziraphale asked. He did want to know. 

“Wanted to get better,” Hastur slouched down further into the booth. “Wanted to learn from Crowley.”

“He’s the best.”

“How long have you known Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. 

(Somewhere during this conversation a server was flagged down and a second round was ordered. Carry on.)

Ligur chuckled. “We’ve known Crowley since the beginning, haven’t we?”

Hastur laughed, too. “We all started out together. Do you remember that stupid red blazer he used to wear?”

“He thought he was so cool, the stupid bastard.”

But there was a fondness in their voices now that Aziraphale had never heard before.

“What was he like?” Aziraphale pushed his empty drink aside and reached for his fresh glass.

“A lot like he is now,” Hastur answered, a smile on his face. “Quick. Flashy. Always had new stuff.”

“He didn’t used to wear those glasses, remember?” Ligur nudged Hastur, and they both laughed. 

“We used to call him The Serpent,” Hastur reminisced. “With those eyes and how quick he was.”

“Was he always so angry?” Aziraphale was hanging on their every word.

Hastur and Ligur exchanged a look.

“No,” Ligur finally answered. “No, he wasn’t.”

“We always figured it had something to do with whatever happened out in Hollywood.”

“Didn’t come back the same Crowley.”

“Hollywood?” Aziraphale wondered. He’d known through his research, of course, that Crowley had been something of a star on the rise back in the 90s. But he’d never actually spoken himself about his time in Los Angeles.

“Came back grouchy and always wearing those damn glasses,” Ligur continued. “We figured that he’d just gotten permanently blinded by the sunshine out there.”

And Aziraphale had a million more questions about Crowley, about Hollywood, about everything, but just then another round of shots arrived. Anathema passed them out around the table.

“To Crowley!” she shouted again.

“To Crowley!” they all bellowed in unison.

Hastur and Ligur, this time, were the loudest.

***

Newt went home first. Hastur and Ligur skulked off not too long after he did. Anathema and Aziraphale stayed for one more drink. When the bar finally announced last call, they left together and began the short jaunt back to the 9th Circle.

“Zira,” Anathema slurred. 

“Aziraphale,” he protested.

“‘S too many syllables,” she groaned. “Z, I can’t ride my bike while I’m this drunk. We need a ride.”

Aziraphale struggled to free his mobile from his pocket. “Shall I call us a taxi, then?”

Anathema wrinkled her nose at him. “A taxi? Z, you call an _Uber._ It’s not the 60s. But no, that sounds hard. We’d have to do math and shit.”

She leaned against the wall of the club, frustration clouding her features, and then:

“Z! Call Tony!”

Aziraphale (God forgive him) _giggled_ at her. “He hates that, you know. You’re the only one he lets get away with it.”

“Oh, I bet you could get away with it.”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the mobile in the gutter. He was too drunk for this.

“No. No, I can’t call him. He’s probably asleep.”

“Oh, but think of it, Z!” Anathema cried, wrenching herself away from the wall and grabbing onto Aziraphale’s shoulders. “He’d be coming to our rescue! We’re so small and helpless. Watch-”

She brought her hand up to her forehead in the very picture of a hapless maiden. Aziraphale shook his head at her.

“I can’t let him see me this drunk,” Aziraphale argued this time, getting a little nearer to the truth. “It’s humiliating.”

“Don’t you two hang out together, like, every night?” Anathema shot right back. “I’ve met Crowley. I know he’s not spending all those nights drinking tea.”

“Well, of course, we have certainly partaken together, but, my dear, it’s nearly 3 o’clock in the morning!”

_And I want to kiss him. I want to thread my fingers through that marvelous hair and I want to kiss him._

Aziraphale would wonder later about the truth to Anathema’s witchcraft jokes, because she looked deep into his eyes then and said:

“Do it, Z.”

Aziraphale, drunk and in the company of a friend, called Crowley.

***

“You two magnificent disasters.”

Crowley had absolutely been asleep when he’d groggily answered Aziraphale’s call, but, as Anathema predicted, he’d sprung into action right away. When the Bentley roared up to the club, Crowley hopped out and looked delighted. He opened the backseat door for Anathema and dipped into a deep bow, flourishing his arms at her.

“Your chariot, _madam._ ”

Anathema curtsied and slid into the backseat. Crowley turned to grin at Aziraphale. 

“So, had some fun, then?”

Aziraphale hiccuped in response. Crowley shook his head, but the grin didn’t leave his face.

“Come on, angel.”

And Aziraphale took a step towards the car, but oh, he didn’t see the curb there, and suddenly he was stumbling, he was tripping, he was falling…

A pair of long, wiry arms caught him around the middle. Crowley stumbled backwards as he caught Aziraphale, and the pair ended up pressed against the side of the Bentley, Aziraphale’s face buried in Crowley’s chest. 

Had he been at all sober, Aziraphale might have pulled away with an immediate jerk. Would have probably fallen over himself to apologize. Would have felt terribly ridiculous and ashamed.

But he was so very drunk, and Crowley’s arms around him were so very nice, and Crowley smelled…

“Why do you smell like apples?” Aziraphale murmured against the fabric of Crowley’s shirt.

Gently, Crowley pressed Aziraphale away from him.

“A mystery for another day. Get in the car, angel,” Crowley said, softly. 

Aziraphale pouted. “But that means I’m going home.”

“What’s wrong with that, angel?”

Aziraphale’s lips wobbled as he confessed the awful, awful truth of it:

“Well, you’re not there.”

Crowley’s lips parted, and Aziraphale thought he heard something like a gasp escape him. Anathema poked her head out of her window.

“Hey! Idiots!” she yelled. “I love you both, but either make out or take me home!”

Crowley ducked his head at that, but he was still smiling. Aziraphale, emboldened by friendship and by alcohol, dared to bring his hand up to the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley yanked his head back and, even with his glasses on, Aziraphale saw the surprise in his eyes.

“Well, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, just so the two of them could hear. “Which will it be?”

“You’re drunk, Aziraphale,” Crowley said back, just as quietly.

Aziraphale stroked his thumb over Crowley’s cheek. Crowley sighed at the touch. He turned his head just enough to place the ghost of a kiss over Aziraphale’s wrist. Then, he took Aziraphale’s hand and tugged it away from his face. He turned away from Aziraphale and opened the front seat door of the Bentley.

“You’re drunk,” Crowley said again, in a thick voice that Aziraphale had never heard before. “And you have a show to start focusing on. What sort of teacher would I be if I didn’t get you home safe and sound?”

He placed a hand on Aziraphale’s lower back and steered him into the front seat of the Bentley.

“Boo!” called Anathema from the back seat.

“Oh, I cannot wait to come see you at work bright and early tomorrow, Starshine,” Crowley drawled. “Might even set an alarm for it.”

He turned to Aziraphale.

“All right, angel?” 

“All right,” Aziraphale agreed. “Perfect. Marvelous. Tickety boo.”

“Yeah, you’ll be the second stop on the Great Hangover Tour of 2020,” Crowley grinned. “Am I allowed to audit middle school classes? I’d love to watch you try to get through Emily Dickinson in this state.”

“ _Hope is the thing with…_ ” Aziraphale stammered. “ _The thing with...:_ ”

He looked to Crowley in a panic.

“Crowley, what is hope the thing with?”

“Don’t look at me. Not a snooty English teacher like some others of us, am I?”

“Crowley!” Buried deep beneath the shots, there was a sober Aziraphale screaming to get free. 

(A moment of silence for that Aziraphale.)

“Crowley!” Drunk-Aziraphale continued. “I need to know. What is hope the thing with?”

Crowley cocked his head to one side and oh, he was handsome and funny and nice and he had come to rescue Aziraphale. Aziraphale held his breath, awaiting the answer.

“Feathers, I think, angel.” 

Feathers. That was it. Aziraphale nodded and fell back against his seat, shutting his eyes tightly against a world that was now beginning to swirl before him.

He felt a light squeeze on his knee and heard the first bits of a song warble out as he drifted off.

_Sometimes I feel so happy  
Sometimes I feel so sad_

***

Aziraphale woke up the next morning feeling horrible.

Aziraphale made his way to school feeling horrible.

Aziraphale taught his first class feeling horrible.

During his free period, he slumped down in his seat, leaning his head into his hands and groaning out loud.

_Well done, Aziraphale. You’ve gone and made a complete idiot of yourself in front of Crowley._

Aziraphale blushed at the memories that had been coming back to him in horrifying flashes all morning. Had he really touched Crowley’s face without asking _and_ forgotten Emily Dickinson all in one fell swoop?

Anathema was a dreadful influence. 

There was a knock at his classroom door. 

“Come in,” Aziraphale called out, wincing at the sound of his own voice.

The school secretary pushed their way through his door.

“Delivery for you, Mr. Fell.”

They set down on his desk a rather gargantuan to-go coffee from Jasmine Cottage and what certainly looked like an apricot scone.

“There’s a note, too,” the secretary said, eagerly, pointing at the little scrap of paper perched on top of the coffee. (School secretaries are allowed to be excited about mysterious in-school deliveries.)

Aziraphale unfolded the note and was rewarded with the sight of a skinny, slanting scrawl that he’d only seen so far in bent and battered notebooks. 

_Looked it up to be sure. Hope is definitely the thing with feathers. Hope you have a good day._

_Crowley._

“ _Thou fond mad man,_ ” Aziraphale whispered to himself.

And so Aziraphale bit into his scone, gratefully sipped his coffee, and made it through his remaining classes.

To even his own surprise, he did not immediately fall into bed upon arriving home. Aziraphale made a cup of tea, sat his weary body at his desk, and began to write, thinking of red hair and of apricot scones.

He finally knew what he wanted to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! For anyone out there actively following these shenanigans, posting might slow down just a tad as I keep working on the later chapters.


	5. "funny." did you hear that?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of the graduation showcase! In which Anathema has some offstage goals...

_1997\. A Saturday night._

Anthony J. Crowley swept his skinny, nervous fingers through his hair for the hundredth time that hour, all the while murmuring under his breath. He tugged aimlessly at the bright red blazer with the rolled up sleeves. He’d originally thought it was rather striking against his similarly colored hair, but now he felt completely fucking stupid. Golden, terrified eyes looked back at him from the mirror. 

Behind him, the bathroom door opened, closed, and Crowley heard the slight click of the door being locked. 

A pair of arms encircled his waist from behind, and a soft kiss landed on his neck. Crowley groaned, but didn’t pull away.

“Stop that,” he grumbled. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“And I’m trying to make you feel better,” Fred replied before returning to the act of kissing along Crowley’s throat. 

“Don’t need to feel better,” Crowley protested, but his body betrayed him, instinctively leaning back more closely against Fred, hungry for the touch. “Need to be good.”

“You’re always good.”

Crowley shivered at the words. 

It was all he wanted.

Crowley looked into the mirror again. Two sets of eyes looked back at him. His own, so strange and burnished-yellow, and Fred’s, a soft, rich warm brown.

Fred spun Crowley around in his arms and pressed his lips softly to the other man’s.

“Hey,” Fred said, softly, suddenly a little pink in the face. “Whatever happens tonight, you’re going to be great up there.”

Crowley just nodded, tongue suddenly too heavy in his mouth. His heart beat wildly beneath his chest. He’d headlined before, dozens of times now, but never with a Big Deal Agent in the audience. Tonight could lead to anything: a special, a tour, a sitcom deal maybe.

He just needed to not fuck up.

“And,” Fred was still talking. Crowley reminded himself to shut his brain up and to listen. As opposed to comedy, this was new, this being a boyfriend thing. He wanted to be good at this too. 

“I love you.”

Crowley gaped at him. “You what?”

“I love you,” Fred repeated, face flushing a deeper crimson now. “And I didn’t mean to tell you for the first time in a horrible comedy club bathroom, but I needed you to know now. Whatever happens tonight, agent or no agent, you still have me, yeah?”

Crowley swallowed. Now (never) wasn’t the time to point out _What if that’s not enough? What if the love of one person will never sustain me?_ It was something that he feared, over-thinking bastard that he was.

“I love you too,” he managed to mumble. And he did. He really did.

Fred smiled at him and kissed him again. Suddenly, there was a furious beating against the locked door:

“Hey! Open the fuck up!”

Fred hurriedly kissed Crowley one more time, smoothed his own hand over his partner’s fire-red hair, and went away to the door. Crowley nodded at him, and went to wash hands that didn’t need washing.

“Break a leg, Anthony,” Fred said quickly, and then unlocked the door and swept out of the bathroom.

Crowley looked again into the mirror. He was twenty-six and nervous, but someone loved him, and why wasn’t that enough to stop the horrible ache down in his guts?

“Please,” he whispered to no one. To Someone.

He took one last deep breath, and then walked out of the bathroom. Made his way backstage, trying not to smile at Fred sitting alone in the front row. Nearly retched when the booming music and emcee’s voice signalled the beginning of the show. Paced frantically just backstage throughout each and every other comic’s set, desperate for a cigarette, anything. 

And then:

“Ladies and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to your headliner for the evening, Anthony J. Crowley!”

Crowley pushed through the old, shabby velvet curtains to thunderous applause, and…

He killed. 

He was smooth, he was steady, every punchline landed, it all went perfectly. 

So perfectly in fact that he was not surprised later on when, hovering near the bar, a whiskey ginger halfway to his lips, a tall, handsome American man clapped him on the shoulders. 

“Anthony J. Crowley,” He seemed awfully friendly, his smile was radiant. Crowley knew his name, but the smiling man offered it anyway. “I’m Gabriel Horne, and I’m an agent out in Los Angeles. Great stuff tonight.”

Crowley leaned against the bar, trying very hard to appear cool. “Los Angeles, eh? Sounds sticky.”

“I suppose you’re going to find out,” Gabriel continued to smile. It was almost unnerving, that smile. “I’d like to sign you and bring you out to Hollywood.”

Crowley’s insides were screaming, but he had years of pretending to be smooth and confident under his belt, so he said, “Always wanted to see that big, bloody sign.”

“Oh, you’ll see more than that,” Gabriel answered. “The world is about to be yours, Anthony J. Crowley. One word of advice, though…” And then he was looking just over Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley turned, following Gabriel’s line of sight to where Fred was standing by the stage door, looking handsome and kind and thrilled, nervously holding his hands in front of his stomach. As Crowley looked at Fred, Gabriel leaned into his ear, and murmured:

“Pack light.”

Crowley was on a plane to Los Angeles the very next morning.

He never saw Fred again. 

***

 _Present day. Another Saturday night._

“We have a situation on our hands,” Anathema said conspiratorially to him one afternoon across the counter at Jasmine Cottage. It was the day before the graduation showcase. Anathema slid Crowley his mocha (she just made it now, no questions asked) and waited for him to catch on.

“Oh, do we?” Crowley drawled as he wrapped his fingers around the warm mug. Just as he brought the drink to his lips:

“Are we going to ask those boys out or not?”

To his credit, Crowley did not perform an actual spit take, though he did choke a little on the scalding, chocolate-coffee nonsense now burning its way down his throat.

Anathema laughed at him and Crowley glowered.

“No, you’re right. Your beloved teacher nearly choking to death before your very eyes. It’s hilarious, Device.”

“‘Beloved teacher?’” Anathema raised an eyebrow.

“You’d be nowhere without me.”

“And you’d be slumming it at a Starbucks,” Anathema replied. She was getting quicker, more confident. Crowley couldn’t wait to watch her tomorrow night.

She continued:

“But to return to the matter at hand…”

“Look,” Crowley held up his hands. “If you want to ask out Tall, Pasty, and Awkward, be my guest. He’s clearly smitten with you. But whatever you’re implying about me…”

“And Aziraphale,” Anathema leaned forward, her eyes fucking twinkling. “Crowley, you two are _so cute._ ”

“I am not cute,” Crowley spat. 

“Normally I’d agree with you,” Anathema replied. “But when you’re around Aziraphale, it’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Tony, come on, you literally call him ‘angel.’” 

“Because I’m making fun of him,” Crowley growled. “Because he’s the most ridiculous thing on the planet.”

“Oh, Gods and Goddesses, _of course_ you would be the kid in the back of the class pulling their classmate’s hair,” Anathema threw her head back when she laughed this time, and Crowley unsuccessfully fought the blush creeping up his skin. 

“Shut up,” he said, lacking anything cleverer to say.

“Tony,” she smiled at him.

 _Tony._

She could get away with it.

Because they were friends. 

So, Crowley took a deep breath.

“Yes, Anathema?”

“Anthony J. Crowley,” she continued. “Tell your angel how you feel.”

_Your angel._

Crowley took a careful sip of his mocha, letting the coffee slide down his throat and stoke the warmth in his belly.

***

 _Sunday._

Anthony J. Crowley swept his skinny, nervous fingers through his hair for the hundredth time that hour, all the while murmuring under his breath. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and scowled. 

“Why are _you_ nervous?” he sneered at himself. “Pathetic.”

The one brain cell that Crowley had cultivated for the purposes of any sort of self-care and gentleness… well, it knew why he was so nervous. He was always nervous before a show, even though he didn’t really have anything to do tonight beyond introduce his students and get out of their way. And fuck, he was nervous for them. He’d stayed up the night before trying to imagine what he would do if anyone heckled one of the students. 

Perhaps surprisingly, Anthony J. Crowley had stayed out of jail this far into his life. But there was a first time for everything.

And when he hadn’t been awake imagining himself getting into a fist fight over fucking Hastur’s honor, he thought about what Anathema had said.

_“Tell your angel how you feel.”_

Anathema didn’t know, of course. Didn’t know how close Crowley had once come to Happiness. She hadn’t been around for star-on-the-rise Anthony J. Crowley. She hadn’t waved farewell to him as he’d departed for Hollywood, filled with promises and hopes to just ascend and ascend and ascend. To soar into the fucking stratosphere. 

She hadn’t been there when he’d fallen.

Crowley drew in a steadying breath. It was fine. It had been a long time ago. He had made something like peace with being a surly has-been. He had regular gigs at the club and he had his handful of Twitter followers. He had still Made It. 

He was a professional comedian. There were plenty of professional comedians who weren’t also stars.

It was fine.

He was fine.

 _There’s more that Anathema doesn’t know,_ hissed a violent voice in his brain. Crowley shut his eyes tight behind his glasses, willing the voice to shut the fuck up.

_You don’t deserve happiness, Anthony J. Crowley. Crowley the coward. This is all you get._

Crowley’s thoughts wandered to Aziraphale. A strange, strangled laugh escaped from Crowley’s throat. To think he would have gone completely daffy over a mad, fussy schoolteacher… Six weeks ago, he would have called you crazy. Told you to fuck right off.

He still didn’t understand it himself. He pictured Aziraphale eating a dessert, and Crowley blushed and rolled his eyes at the same time. Aziraphale was ridiculous, he really was.

But he made Crowley care. Made Crowley want to do better, to be better.

_He also sort of tried to kiss you last weekend? Are we ever going to get into that?_

“He was just drunk,” Crowley whispered out loud, eyes still shut.

_He likes you._

“He likes everything.”

_You’re an idiot._

“Fuck,” groaned Crowley, sliding his fingers through his hair one last time. 

He strode out of his bedroom, grabbed the container on the kitchen counter, and pushed his way out of the door, mind still decidedly not made up about anything.

***

Backstage, Crowley unceremoniously set the container down on the tiny, falling apart green room table.

“Apple tarts!” he announced. “Don’t let your blood sugar dip. We’ve got magic to do tonight.”

He winced as soon as he said it. _“Magic to do?” Good fucking Lord._ As the rest of the crew descended on the tarts, Aziraphale looked at Crowley.

“Did you bake these yourself?”

Crowley scratched absently at his nose. This had probably been too revealing, the apple tart thing. “I suspect they’re rubbish compared to Jasmine Cottage’s, but I figured I’d give it a shot. Something nice for your last class.”

Aziraphale brow furrowed for just an adorable moment and then his eyes were wide with realization.

“Is this why you smelled like apples last weekend?” he asked, mouth hanging just a tad open.

Crowley now brought his hand to rub at the back of his own neck. Anything to do.

“I’d really hoped you were too drunk to remember that,” Crowley confessed.

Aziraphale reached out to touch his arm and Crowley tried not to jump out of his skin.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley just nodded, his heart in his fucking throat. 

“It’ll be strange not to be here next Sunday,” Aziraphale said, doing that adorable dip thing he did with his chin. 

Crowley nodded again. 

“I’ll miss it,” Aziraphale went on, quietly.

Nod.

“I’ll miss you, Crowley.”

Possessed by something stronger than self-loathing, Crowley turned to Aziraphale and opened his stupid fucking mouth.

“Aziraphale-”

Beez bust into the green room, looking as harried as ever. They made eye contact with Crowley and gestured to their watch. Crowley checked his own.

“Five minutes, you lot,” he called out, his voice an embarrassingly wretched thing. 

His five students- FUCK- looked at him with panicked eyes. Fuck, should he say something? Fuck, the next time he did this, he was going to be better prepared.

Something complicated twisted around Crowley’s guts at the idea of a “next time.” Fuck, had this gone and meant something to him?

Fuck.

“Yeah, all right, come on,” he sighed and waved them all into the wings. 

They all huddled up in the wings. It was even tighter back there than onstage, but they made it work. They’d made it this far, after all. 

“All right,” Crowley put a fist in the middle of the circle. “You’ve all come a long way and worked really hard. You’ve got friends and stuff out there, so knock ‘em dead, yeah?”

They all nodded, terrified and beaming. 

“I’m,” Crowley swallowed. Fuck, was he going to actually say it? Had this turned into an 80’s sports movie without his consent? He regarded his gang of scrappy ne’er-do-wells and he told them the truth, cliches be damned:

“I’m proud of all of you.”

A blare of familiar rock music enveloped the 9th Circle Comedy Club. 

Showtime.

After one last good look at the Aziraphale he once knew, Crowley walked out to the microphone.

“Denizens of Hell, welcome to the 9th Circle Comedy Club!” Crowley shouted at the crowd.

It wasn’t a packed house by any stretch of the imagination. Assorted friends and family members, Crowley assumed. A few supportive other comics that he recognized. Some random folks with unidentified motives. 

Beez, their arms folded and suspicious. Waiting for him to fuck it all up. 

All right, so like any open mic, really.

Crowley made it through his opening banter more carefully than he ever had before. He couldn’t remember the last time that the stakes of a show had felt so high to him. 

“These guys have all grown immensely over the past few weeks,” Crowley growled at the audience.

_Be fucking decent to them._

It’s amazing how quickly they go, the nights that mean the most to us. Crowley was leading the audience in a round of polite applause for Newt before he knew what was happening.

Crowley squeezed into the wings among the other students. They were all crowded back there together to watch one another, hardly daring to breathe. Crowley slid in between Anathema and Aziraphale. He folded his arms across his chest and tried to ignore the fact that they were so tightly packed back there that his shoulder and thigh were pressed very tightly against Aziraphale.

“Because everywhere I go, I hold up traffic.” Onstage, Newt landed the tried and true punchline about his car to a warm response from the audience.

Crowley turned to peek at Anathema. Her hands were clasped in front of her heart and she was looking at Newt like he wasn’t just another dorky stand-up comedian. She was looking at him like he was something magnificent. Like he could save the entire bloody world. 

Crowley dared to turn to his other side to check in on Aziraphale. His marvelous eyes were wide and focused, and Crowley recognized the stubborn determination there. Crowley placed a hand lightly on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Breathe, angel, okay?”

Aziraphale kept looking straight ahead, but he nodded and drew in a purposeful breath. And then he brought his own hand up to his shoulder to rest on top of Crowley’s.

Crowley had just slid his thumb out from under Aziraphale’s palm in order to squeeze the angel’s hand, but a sudden burst of applause brought him back to the task at hand. Hating it even more than he hated most things, Crowley forced himself away from Aziraphale’s touch and made his way back to the microphone, clapping Newt on the shoulder as they crossed paths.

“Newt Pulsifer!” Crowley shouted into the microphone, keeping the applause going. 

It was Hastur next, followed, as always, by Ligur. And, damn, they really had grown. It wasn’t just the usual audience abuse and surly observations. Hastur did a bit about avocados that fucking killed, and Ligur went on a nice extended rant about his pet chameleon. Crowley couldn’t believe it. 

“What the fuck happened at the bar last week?” he whispered to Anathema. “Did you cast a talent spell on them?”

She just shrugged wordlessly. 

“Hey,” Crowley nudged against her shoulder. She turned to look at him, eyes big and scared and brave.

“Whatever happens tonight,” he continued, swallowing a little. Dammit, caring about people was a horrid business.

She was still looking at him. 

Looking up _to_ him, he realized like a sledgehammer to the knees.

“I hope you’re not lonely anymore,” Crowley murmured.

“Love you too, Tony,” she smiled.

Crowley crossed to the microphone to keep the applause going for Ligur.

“Up next,” he drawled into the mic. “Give it up for Anathema Device!”

Anathema walked out to the microphone, confident and shining. Crowley made his way back to the curtains, surprised at how easy it was to keep breathing, given how much he cared about her.

 _Oh,_ he realized. _It’s because I’m not worried about this one._

His trust was well placed. Anathema fucking obliterated. She was brash, she was political, she was relentless. She was a fucking wildfire.

“Ladies and gentle-thems,” Anathema shouted onstage. “Let me give you some dating advice. Give up on pick-up lines, I am TELLING YOU. Age old prophecies are where it is _at._ ”

The small crowd cheered and laughed. Backstage, Anathema’s classmates exchanged high fives and fist bumps, overjoyed at her success. 

“I’m Anathema Device! Good night!” 

Anathema walked off of the stage and directly into Newt’s arms, nearly knocking him over with enthusiasm. Crowley patted her awkwardly on the back before making his way back to the microphone. There would be time to properly celebrate later.

The show wasn’t over yet.

Crowley didn’t Believe in Anything, which is perhaps the only reason he did not issue a silent prayer for Aziraphale Fell as he crossed the suddenly vast distance between the curtains and the microphone. He believed in Aziraphale Fell, and that was enough.

He curled his long fingers around the mic and brought it to his lips. 

“Denizens of Hell, please give your warmest welcome to Aziraphale Fell!”

Aziraphale walked out to the mic. Maybe it was just the stage lighting, Crowley acknowledged, but he looked terribly pale. Holding his little note cards against his chest as if they could protect him now. Part of Crowley wanted to grab him and make a run for it. Couldn’t bear to let Aziraphale stride into potential harm’s way, emotional or otherwise.

But the other part of Crowley was the one who had paid attention to Aziraphale’s work over the past six weeks. The other part of Crowley was the one who had stayed up late in the night with him workshopping material. The other part of Crowley knew that Aziraphale would be fine.

 _He doesn’t need you anymore,_ whispered a miserable voice in Crowley’s brain.

Crowley shook it off. Tomorrow could be for him feeling sorry for himself. Tonight was about his students.

He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder as they crossed paths. 

“Break a leg, angel,” he murmured.

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley sauntered into the wings and that was it. Aziraphale was on his own. Anathema snuck up beside Crowley and looped an arm over his shoulders.

“He’s going to be wonderful,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“Hello,” began Aziraphale, warmly. The crowd did not respond. (They didn’t have to yet.)

“Do you know what really bothers me?” Aziraphale continued, chancing a glance at his note cards. Crowley nodded his head offstage. 

_That’s right, angel. Just like we practiced. Go on about the old books, sweetheart._

Aziraphale drew in a deep breath and let the hand holding the note cards relax at his side. Crowley noticed that his left leg was shaking as he stood there. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from running back out to the mic, grabbing Aziraphale by the waist, and hauling him to safety.

_I’ll buy you every treat at every bakery in every neighborhood. Just be okay, please._

Onstage, Aziraphale continued, “I was going to go on a bit of a rant about bending the spines of rare books and that is a heinous crime, to be sure, but do you know what really bothers me, my dears?”

_Huh?_

“It bothers me to feel like a joke before I’ve ever even told one.”

Crowley’s eyes grew huge behind his glasses. _Wait, what?_ Anathema squeezed Crowley’s shoulder, drawing in her own surprised gasp.

“And, my dear friends,” Aziraphale went on, _removing the mic from the stand and stepping forward._ Crowley was so fucking proud of him. “I do understand. I do look at myself in the mirror every morning, after all.”

There were some cautious snickers from the crowd.

“People who meet me tend to assume three things,” Aziraphale said, holding up three fingers. “One, that I’m English. Well, obviously.”

“‘Obviously,’” Crowley repeated, thrilled. Where had this material come from?

“Two, that I’m intelligent. In regards to my intelligence, I am flattered, but I’m not positive where this assumption comes from. Is it the bowtie?” He gestured to himself and looked to the crowd for their opinion. There were some visible nods and even some shouts of “Yes!”

“Really?” Aziraphale remarked in response. “You do know there’s no qualifying exam to purchase one of these, yes?”

The audience laughed a little harder. Crowley’s heart was about to outgrow his flimsy chest cavity.

“Contrary to what the bowtie seems to suggest, I’ve actually done some frightfully stupid things. Why, on holiday in France once…”

“Ooh, the crepe bit!” whispered Anathema to Crowley. 

Aziraphale made it through the France story and the audience followed him along for the journey, growing increasingly more vocal in their appreciation of his material. Well, not just of the material.

Of Aziraphale.

But for his shaking leg, Crowley would have never known that Aziraphale was nervous. He had delved deep into his reserves of Shakespeare and teacher experience, apparently, because he was nothing but collected and confident up there. He rode the waves of laughter like a pro surfer.

Crowley allowed himself the mental image of Aziraphale in a bathing suit and nearly blacked out.

“But, you know, my dears, the crepes really were worth it,” Aziraphale was reaching the end of that bit. “And the brioche.”

Crowley had no idea what was coming next.

“Let’s see, that I’m English, that I’m intelligent, and what’s that third one? Yes. Of course. That I’m… I want to get the wording exactly right… that I’m gayer than a tree of monkeys full of nitrous oxide.”

Oh, it was the biggest laugh yet. That relieved laugh of an audience who had all been thinking the same thing and were delighted to find themselves proven correct. Everyone likes to be right.

“First of all,” Aziraphale said when the laughs died down. “What horrible creature is supplying nitrous oxide to these monkeys, I wonder? And second of all, yes, I am a gay man. I’ll hold for your surprised gasps.”

Crowley wasn’t certain when it had happened, and he would have denied the whole thing later, but he now found his hand being held protectively by Anathema. She squeezed it at Aziraphale’s declaration.

Because Crowley had known. I mean, of course, he’d known. But to hear it said out loud so simply on the stage of a filthy comedy club.

_Yes, I am a gay man._

Crowley breathed.

“Allow me to be more specific, by the way,” Aziraphale continued. “I’m not just any Southern Pansy. I am _the_ Southern Pansy.”

Not just laughter this time, but _cheers._

“Tony,” Anathema turned to him. “Are you crying?”

“Shut up.”

(He was.)

“It can be lonely sometimes to be an older single gay man,” Aziraphale informed the crowd, voice softening just enough. “I mean, what do you think possessed me to go out and sign up for a stand up comedy class in the first place? It couldn’t have just been due to how tight Crowley’s trousers are, could it?”

At that, Aziraphale dared to look back into the wings. What he saw, to Crowley’s horror, was a thoroughly unravelled red-haired comedian, holding his barista’s hand and trying not to sob.

“Really, why did I sign up?” Aziraphale asked the crowd again. “Someone please tell me if you’ve solved it. Because I’m still not sure that I know. And perhaps that’s all right.”

He took another step forward.

“My point, I think, is this,” Aziraphale said. “No matter what anyone else assumes about you, each of you has something to say. Whether you ever say it on a stage or not. When you do, I hope you have as lovely a time as I’ve had tonight. Thank you, I’ve been Aziraphale Fell.”

It was the loudest applause of the night.

“If you don’t ask him out after this,” Anathema nudged Crowley. “I think I might.”

And there were clever responses cooking on Crowley’s clever tongue, but none of them mattered. Because he was walking back out onto the stage. He was walking to Aziraphale. He was wrapping his arms around the other man and hugging him so tightly that Aziraphale’s feet briefly left the ground.

_That’s right, angel. Keep flying._

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Crowley growled into Aziraphale’s ear.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale breathed back. He was shaking all over now.

“Don’t go far. Just gotta wrap this up, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Crowley let him go, held him at arm’s length, loved him.

Loved him.

Crowley loved him.

He let Aziraphale go and somehow made his way back to the microphone.

“Aziraphale Fell!” He led the audience in another round of cheers for Aziraphale. “And let’s give it up again for all of our comics tonight!”

The audience cheered and hollered. Audiences had cheered and hollered at Anthony J. Crowley in a comedy club before now, but it had never felt like this. Had never felt this good. 

He had never felt so much like maybe he deserved the praise. 

“Tip your bartenders! Good night!”

Crowley practically skipped offstage where he was immediately pulled into a triumphant group hug by five sets of very funny arms.

***

The first round of shots was on Crowley. 

They all sat together at the bar in the back of the club.

“Well done, guys,” Crowley drawled. “I should be able to show my face in public again after that.”

“Shut up,” Ligur growled. But there was no bite to it.

“Okay,” Anathema set her hands down on the counter as though she was about to start drawing up an elaborate plan. “Second location time. I requested tomorrow morning off ages ago, so we’re staying up all night, non-negotiable.”

Everyone immediately nodded their assent. Crowley looked at Aziraphale with a bit of surprise.

“No class tomorrow, angel?” 

Aziraphale’s face went redder than Crowley had ever seen it before.

“I… I requested a substitute. If anyone at Tadfield Middle asks, I’ve come down with a terrible case of food poisoning.”

His comrades cheered and patted him delightedly on the back. Aziraphale’s smile, though shy, was radiant. Crowley grinned back.

“Bit of a bastard move, isn’t that?”

“Perhaps,” Azirpahale agreed. “But if you tell anyone, I’ll join Twitter just to tell the world that the notorious @unhingedaj actually baked apple tarts for all his students on their graduation night. Think of the scandal.”

“Let’s go, friends!” Anathema clapped her hands at them. She placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“So, we’ll all pile into Newt’s car,” she explained, terribly casually. “And you can take Aziraphale, right?”

“Right,” Crowley said. He adored her, but she was about as subtle as a ton of bricks. 

“Great!” Anathema beamed. She leaned forward and hugged Crowley tightly.

“Break a leg, Tony,” she whispered into his ear before letting go and flouncing off with Newt, Hastur, and Ligur.

Crowley and Aziraphale sat alone at the bar.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began, quietly, hardly believing what he was about to do, but then-

“Aziraphale!” A new voice rang out behind them.

Crowley turned in his seat to see a tall woman in a smart suit making their way up to them. Crowley frowned. He’d noticed her in the audience earlier. She looked sort of familiar in a way that felt like a warning deep in Crowley’s stomach.

Aziraphale, tipsy and glowing, greeted the stranger kindly. “Hello!”

“Aziraphale,” she extended her hand to him. Aziraphale took it. “I’m Michael Archer and I represent the End-of-the-World Comedy Festival coming up in Edinburgh next month. Do you have a moment to talk?”

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, a mix of emotions on his face. Confusion. Surprise. Delight.

Hope.

Crowley smiled though his insides had suddenly gone frigid. “Go on then, angel. I’ll wait for you outside.”

And Crowley slid off of his barstool and made his way to the exit. He would wait for Aziraphale. Of course he would. 

He thought perhaps he might wait forever for this strange, stunning creature. 

But noxious words from over twenty years ago snaked their way through Crowley’s brain as he leaned against the wall of the club and breathed in the evening air.

_Pack light._

Crowley wrapped his arms around himself and breathed and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading and commenting and being wonderful! Posting might slow down a bit after this chapter, but I was just eager to share what I have so far! Thank you again!
> 
> I'm waywarder on Tumblr, if you ever want to talk GO or stand-up!


	6. present mirth hath present laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has some big news for Crowley and the rest of their little comedy gang.

Aziraphale could hardly believe his ears.

_“I’m Michael Archer and I represent the End-of-the-World Comedy Festival coming up in Edinburgh next month. Do you have a moment to talk?”_

Aziraphale wished Crowley was still sitting beside him at the bar. It felt strange to be discussing anything comedy-related without Crowley. Aziraphale had begun to regard them as though they were a sort of team, after all. 

He blushed at the silliness of the thought. Crowley was his teacher and their class was over and Aziraphale felt sadder than he had at the end of any school year over the course of his career. 

_But you can keep going, if you like,_ whispered a brave, quiet voice. _You can go somewhere, Aziraphale._

“Aziraphale?”

Michael was waiting for an answer. 

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

“Yes,” Aziraphale finally responded to her with a shaky smile. “I do have a moment to talk.”

*** 

Aziraphale walked out of the club in a bit of a daze. He was almost surprised to find Crowley leaning up against the brick wall of the club, arms folded across his chest, one foot propped up on the wall behind him.

“Crowley? What are you still doing here?”

Crowley frowned at that. “Told you I’d wait for you, angel.”

_But why?_

Aziraphale just nodded. Had he really just been up onstage telling jokes less than an hour ago? It felt like lifetimes ago. Lifetimes ago when all he wanted to do was to make Anthony J. Crowley laugh and feel proud of him.

“So,” Crowley’s voice was quieter than Aziraphale was used to. He didn’t like it. “What did comedy festival representative Michael Archer want to talk to you about?”

And Aziraphale knew Crowley already knew the answer, but he told him anyway.

“Well,” Aziraphale didn’t understand why he hadn’t skipped out of the club with this news. Why he hadn’t flung his arms around Crowley’s neck and shouted his happiness at him. Because he was happy, wasn’t he? This was good, wasn’t it?

“Well?”

“I’ve been offered the opportunity to perform at the End-of-the-World Comedy Festival next month.”

There. There it was. And it was wonderful, wasn’t it?

So, why did it feel so stale in his mouth? Why did it feel like an ocean between them?

Crowley’s grin at the news was enormous, but oh, how Aziraphale longed to see his eyes. To see the truth of his reaction to this news. 

“Well done, angel,” he clapped a hand to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It’s about time the rest of the world sees how excellent you are.”

“Come with me,” Aziraphale blurted out.

Even through his glasses, it felt like Crowley’s eyes could see down to the very core of him.

“What?” Crowley asked.

“Come with me to the festival,” Aziraphale continued, fighting to maintain his nerve. 

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

“Why?” Crowley asked, softer now.

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip, but told the truth all the same.

“Because I need you.” 

Crowley laughed at that, but it was a low and gentle thing. 

“You don’t need me, angel. Never did, I expect.”

But before Aziraphale could protest:

“But I’ll be there. Of course I’ll be there.”

“Oh,” breathed Aziraphale. “Well, good.”

“Come on, the others are waiting for us,” Crowley reminded him. “Let’s go to the bar and celebrate your glorious triumph, yeah?”

Something had Changed. And Crowley was still with him. The joy that Aziraphale had felt so cautious to allow suddenly bubbled up in him with an intense force.

_He was going to perform at a real comedy festival._

And so he did suddenly leap and fling his arms around Crowley’s neck. Crowley stepped backwards in surprise, colliding with the wall, but caught him all the same.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s ear, hugging him tightly.

“Proud of you,” Crowley growled in response. And, again: “Of course I’ll be there.”

Of course.

***

“To Aziraphale!!”

Aziraphale’s classmates were thrilled at the news of the festival.

“But,” Newt gawked. “What exactly does it all mean?”

“It means,” Anathema was glowing, one arm slung happily around Newt’s shoulders. “That Aziraphale is going to be _famous._ ”

The rowdy little crew cheered and clinked glasses again. Aziraphale winced as some of Ligur’s ale spilled on him, but he couldn’t pretend to be truly bothered.

He never would have guessed that a little stand-up comedy class would have done it for him, but he suspected that he was perhaps where he always wanted to be. Seen. Appreciated. Admired.

Among friends.

“As I understand it, there’s to be a stage purely set aside for, well, newer comics,” Aziraphale explained, dipping his head nervously. He didn’t want to appear boastful, though his friends’ enthusiasm (along with the alcohol) was certainly going a little to his head.

“And they asked you to perform!” Anathema cried. “Z, that’s so exciting!”

She whirled around to face Crowley. 

“Tony, isn’t that exciting?” she demanded to know.

“Of course it is,” Crowley snarled back at her. “When did you hear me saying anything to the contrary?”

“I didn’t hear you saying much of anything at all,” Anathema shot right back. 

Crowley glowered at her and returned his attention to his whiskey. Aziraphale’s heart sagged just a little at his reaction. He’d spent the last six weeks picturing this particular night with increasing vividness. Now that he was no longer Crowley’s pupil…

Well, he’d been certain that something was going to happen between them, as it were.

And he was going to perform at a comedy festival! And he’d done quite well in the graduation showcase! And Crowley was proud of him, he’d said so!

Why wasn’t Crowley’s arm slung happily over his shoulders?

“Is that what you want, Aziraphale?” Newt asked.

_For Crowley to touch me? Yes. Very much so._

“What’s that, Newt?” 

“Do you want to be famous?” 

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that. He suddenly felt rather hypocritical, tempted back to a life on the stage by the merest promise of something like fame.

He shook his head. He was being ridiculous.

“I hardly think that one festival will make much of a difference,” Aziraphale forced a laugh out of his throat. 

“I don’t know, Z,” Anathema tapped her glass against his. “You were something pretty special tonight.”

And, for once, Aziraphale felt like something pretty special.

He just wished Crowley didn’t seem so miserable.

***

Crowley walked Aziraphale home. Aziraphale’s heart pounded with every step.

_Say it, Aziraphale._

“What will you do now that class is over?” Aziraphale asked, hating how awkward he felt. It was as though the past six weeks had never passed between them.

“Dunno,” Crowley said, looking straight ahead. “Liked it more than I expected. Might ask Beez if I can take the next class off their hands.”

“Crowley, that’s wonderful!”

And it was. It really was.

“And I guess you haven’t seen the last of me,” Crowley nudged Aziraphale with his elbow. “Not if I’m really coming to the festival with you?”

Aziraphale started to laugh at that. “Of course you’re coming with me, Crowley!”

Without warning, Crowley stopped in his tracks and drew in a harsh breath. Aziraphale turned to him with wide, concerned eyes.

“My dear, whatever is the matter?”

“Don’t…” Crowley stumbled for the words.

“What is it, Crowley?” _Oh, this wasn’t going according to daydream at all._

“Don’t ask me to go because you feel sorry for me, angel.”

Aziraphale knew how unattractive he probably looked, suddenly gaping like a furious fish out of water, but he found he hardly cared.

“I’m not asking you to go because I feel sorry for you, Crowley,” Aziraphale finally found his own words. “I’m a little hurt that you’d even think it of me.”

“It’s just…” Crowley stammered again. “You don’t owe me anything, you get that, right?”

“‘Owe you?’ I’m terribly sorry, but I for one never thought of our relationship as something transactional.”

“That isn’t what I meant! You’re just so _good_ all the time and I don’t want you to invite me for the wrong reasons.”

Aziraphale felt his face flush hotter than anything. “What are the ‘wrong reasons?’”

Because suddenly every reason felt wrong. Suddenly Aziraphale felt manipulative, deceitful. Like he was luring Crowley into some hideous trap to convince him…

To convince him…

Oh, dear.

Crowley’s gaze was fixed on the ground. “I don’t want to get in your way, angel, okay?”

“You couldn’t,” Aziraphale whispered, miserably. “Don’t you see? I didn’t even have a way before you, Crowley.”

Crowley sucked in another breath, still looking anywhere but at Aziraphale’s face.

Anthony J. Crowley’s eyes always made Aziraphale want to be brave. And Aziraphale needed to be brave.

“My dear,” Aziraphale credited his classical training for keeping the wobble out of his voice. “Would you kindly remove your glasses?”

Crowley’s head jerked up so hard that Aziraphale briefly worried it would snap free from his shoulders.

“What?” he barked.

“Please, Crowley.”

A moment that might have been an eternity stretched between them before Crowley lifted a hand to his face. He seemed to freeze there. 

“What is it, dear?” Aziraphale needed to know.

“I haven’t… Not with anyone else…”

Aziraphale lifted his own hand to cover Crowley’s.

“Please, Crowley. I need you to see me when I tell you.”

Together they removed the glasses from Crowley’s face.

Crowley’s eyes stayed tightly shut as he transferred the glasses to his jacket pocket. Aziraphale dared to bring both hands now to the sides of Crowley’s face. The strange, beautiful man before him shuddered at the touch. 

“Aziraphale,” he whispered.

“What is it, Crowley?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t deserve what, dear heart?”

Crowley’s eyes opened in a brilliant flash of gold. 

“You,” Crowley said, his voice nearly nothing.

Aziraphale didn’t kiss him then. Not yet. He was determined to share his first kiss with Anthony J. Crowley when they could both see that they were worthy of it.

“I was going in circles, Crowley,” Aziraphale said into Crowley’s magnificent eyes. “I was convinced I already knew everything I was ever going to know about myself. And then you sauntered along and you made me brave enough to ask questions. About everything but especially about myself. I wouldn’t be performing onstage at any sort of comedy festival if it hadn’t been for you, and so I refuse to do so without you there. Is that clear?”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale slid his hands down over Crowley’s neck, shoulders, chest until he was grasping his long, lovely hands. Aziraphale brought first one hand and then the other up to his lips.

(Okay, so Aziraphale didn’t kiss him _on the mouth_ yet.)

“I was stuck, too, you know,” Crowley murmured. “I was just picking fights with strangers on the Internet-”

“And in person,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Shut up while I’m telling you how you changed my life.”

Aziraphale did.

“I didn’t care anymore, angel,” Crowley went on. “I didn’t care about anything. And now I care about so many things. I care about you and Anathema and all of them. It’s a little terrifying.”

“What’s terrifying about it?”

Crowley laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s.

“If you care,” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hands gently. “You just get hurt, don’t you?”

“You don’t have to be,” Aziraphale insisted.

Crowley looked for a long time into Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“I trust you, Aziraphale.”

“Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley’s face finally broke into the grin that Aziraphale had been longing to see all night long. He took a step forward and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, crushing him in a hug.

“We’re going to the End-of-the-World, angel!”

***

The last month of the school year was a blur. Aziraphale fought harder than he ever had before to be the master of his own concentration. In the middle of grammar lessons, he found himself nearly whisked away by visions of the festival. Of getting up onstage and making Crowley so impossibly proud, of proving to Crowley that he wasn’t going anywhere, of spending a weekend away in Crowley’s company…

Aziraphale hoped fervently that he wasn’t ruining his students’ chances at passing their exams.

On the last day of school, Aziraphale stayed behind to tidy his classroom. He and Crowley were set to leave the following weekend. They would spend the next week going over Aziraphale’s material. They had plans nearly every night of the week, in fact.

Aziraphale was buzzing. He almost didn’t hear the knock at the door.

“Come in!” he called out.

The school secretary, bless them, poked their head in through the door.

“Visitors for you, Mr. Fell!”

And they opened the door wide to admit: 

_Hastur and Ligur._

They looked hysterically out of place in the classroom, surrounded by posters about good grammar and whiteboards covered in encouraging sentiments. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Aziraphale was close to positive that he’d never been so surprised to see anyone in his entire life.

They looked to one another before turning back to Aziraphale.

“You like Crowley,” Hastur said plainly.

Aziraphale choked a little. This was certainly turning into one of the stranger interactions of his life.

“And what if I do?” 

Hastur and Ligur exchanged another set of solemn glances. Ligur reached out to place a hand lightly on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale nearly jumped at the surprise of the contact. What was happening?

“Be careful,” Ligur murmured.

“My dear fellows,” Aziraphale couldn’t believe it. “Crowley and I are each fully grown adults. Moreover, this is absolutely none of your business and-”

“Aziraphale,” Hastur said simply. It chilled Aziraphale’s blood to hear his name coming out of that mouth with such sympathy.

Aziraphale felt his pulse quicken. He had nothing to worry about. Yes, he… all right, of course, he liked Crowley. And he was certain that Crowley liked him in return. And they were about to go to the festival together and everything was going to be splendid. Whyever would that be a cause for worry?

“Careful of what?” Aziraphale finally asked, the question alone feeling like a betrayal of the man he…

Liked.

“It might be nothing,” Hastur shrugged. “He’s changed a lot since meeting you.”

Aziraphale blushed.

“But he’s got demons, Crowley does,” Ligur continued. “It’s like we told you at the bar that night. He didn’t come back from Hollywood the same.”

“Didn’t even leave for Hollywood the same,” Hastur corrected him. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You need to ask Crowley about Fred.”

_Fred._

The name plummeted like a stone into the lake of Aziraphale’s heart.

“Be careful, Aziraphale,” Hastur said again before he and Ligur turned to go.

As the door closed shut behind them, Aziraphale sank down into his desk chair and closed his eyes. A thousand possible horrors danced before his shut eyes. A thousand awful truths about the identity of this mysterious Fred and whatever role he’d played in Crowley’s life. A thousand realizations that Aziraphale had only actually known Crowley for a few months and maybe he’d been a fool about everything.

Always the fool.

“But I know him,” Aziraphale whispered fiercely to himself. 

Aziraphale thought of a tall, skinny man with brilliant golden eyes and a quick wit. He thought of a marvelous but guarded heart that leaked at its seams, leaving apricot scones and apple tarts in its wake. He thought of trust and laughter and of long arms wrapped around his waist to keep him from falling.

Aziraphale thought of faith.

He decided that it didn’t matter who Fred was. Crowley would tell him in his own time. 

Aziraphale collected his things and took what might have been a last look around his old classroom. Because Aziraphale didn’t know what would happen at the End-of-the-World comedy festival. He didn’t know where his story went next and he was truly terrified.

All he knew for sure was that he was in love.

Aziraphale took hold of Harry the Rabbit’s carrier, and walked out of the doors of Tadfield Middle and into his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Thanks so much for reading, friends! I know I've been posting a lot (and I probably should have spaced these updates out more, but I WAS SO EXCITED), but things are about to slow down while I write What Happens At The Festival. Thanks for your patience! I can't wait to share more of this story with you!


	7. it's kind of a funny story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of the grand adventure to the End-of-the-World comedy festival, Crowley tells Anathema a story.

_A Wednesday, about a month later._

“You look like Hell,” Anathema offered as she accepted the drink Crowley handed to her.

“Yeah, and you look like a feminist book shop threw up on a tarot deck, but I had the good graces not to fucking mention it, didn’t I?” Crowley scowled as he flung himself down onto the sofa beside her, the ice cubes in his own cocktail clinking with malice.

Anathema rolled her eyes at him. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got today, Tony?”

He groaned. “I _feel_ like Hell, all right?”

Anathema frowned, thought about that for a moment, and then reached across the sofa to flick Crowley firmly in the arm. He yelped. 

“What the fuck was that for?!”

“You self-sabotaging menace. What is there to feel like Hell about right now?!”

“Aren’t you the one always going on about The System? Isn’t everything worth feeling awful about?”

“Focus, idiot. Aziraphale _LIKES YOU._ You like Aziraphale! You’re going to the festival together! Everything's coming up Anthony J. Crowley!”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No, it’s exactly that simple. And that’s what scares you.”

Crowley didn’t have a snappy retort for that. He swallowed a mouthful of liquor instead. 

Anathema looked at him with big concerned eyes that he pretended to hate.

“Explain it to me, Tony.”

(Let’s get you caught up, dear hearts.)

(This is how it went, this time around: The graduation show happened, the offer of The Festival was made, and Aziraphale and Crowley dove headfirst into the work ahead of them. If possible, they spent more time together than they had prior to the showcase. If they’d had the ability to examine set-ups and punchlines with a microscope, they perhaps might have done it.)

(They talked about timing and about crowd work and about which bow tie Aziraphale should wear on which night of the festival, and they talked animatedly with their hands and drank too much red wine until 3 in the morning, because why shouldn’t they? They talked and they talked and they talked.) 

(They didn’t talk about _that._ )

Crowley shrugged and made a noncommittal sort of noise. (You all know the one.)

Anathema sighed with disappointment and settled herself a little more deeply against the sofa.

This was another new occurrence. Seeing Anathema outside of Jasmine Cottage. Inviting another human being to his flat. Proof that Anthony J. Crowley existed outside of the spotlight of a dingy comedy club. Even when he saw Aziraphale, they tended to end up at Aziraphale’s place. Crowley liked that. It kept everything in perspective for him.

_This is about him. You had your chance once and you fucked it nine ways to Sunday. You don’t get to want another chance. Keep this about him, Crowley._

Sometimes Anathema dragged Newt along with her to Crowley’s place and the poor bastard never seemed to know what to say to Crowley. It was a little like they were still in class. But Newt’s presence made Anathema even shinier than she naturally was, so Crowley made the politest small talk he knew how to make and he silently thanked Someone that someone decent was in Anathema’s life.

“What time do you leave tomorrow morning?” Anathema finally asked.

“Bright and early,” Crowley grumbled. “I’m sure Aziraphale’s already awake and waiting on the train now, that absurd morning creature.”

“I’m sorry, don’t you mean that perfect morning creature with whom you’re desperately in love?” Anathema countered, casually bringing her drink to her lips.

“Fuck,” Crowley groaned again, feeling exposed and pitiful. 

“I speak Crowley, so I know that means ‘yes,’” Anathema went on. “So, again: Explain to me why this isn’t as simple as you marching into that train station bright and early tomorrow morning and pulling that wonderful man into your skinny arms.”

Crowley sipped his drink to stall and to consider friendship. To consider what it might mean to tell someone the entire truth and see if they stuck around anyway. 

He set his drink down on the coffee table. 

He removed his glasses.

(Oh, that’s another thing that was happening now.)

He turned to his friend Anathema and he told her a story.

“I’ve never told you,” Crowley spoke slowly. He wondered if he’d ever gone so slowly at anything his entire life. But he had to get this right. He swallowed.

“It’s okay, Tony.”

_Tony._

Because they were friends.

“I’ve never told you about how I made it to Hollywood in the first place.”

And Crowley told her everything. Crowley told his friend about the first man he loved, about a kind, brown-eyed soul named Fred. About someone who truly loved him, and how that hadn’t been enough. How Crowley had the chance to fly across the ocean and maybe become beloved by millions. How he’d seized at the chance immediately, leaving that kind, brown-eyed soul standing alone at a bar.

As Crowley told his story, Anathema turned her face away from him, casting her eyes down to the coffee table. 

“What happened in Hollywood?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Crowley drew his fingers once through his hair before folding his arms tightly across his chest. He slouched back against the sofa, wishing it would come to life and swallow him whole.

_No. You’re not getting out of this that easy, Crowley._

“Tale as old as time, Device. Too many talented people, not enough opportunities. I got sent out on six thousand auditions and no one knew what to do with me. Got a lot of comments on how weird and off-putting my eyes are. That’s when I started wearing these.”

He unfolded his arms and reached down to touch the damned glasses, fighting the urge to put them back on, to cover something of himself up. 

“So, you came back?” Anathema finished for him.

Crowley nodded. “I came back. Having been a comedian in Hollywood at all meant something back here, so landing the regular gig at the 9th Circle was pretty easy.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

Crowley wanted to set himself on fucking fire.

Instead he breathed.

“Because you’re my friend,” he answered. “Because I pretended to teach you anything. Because you deserve to know the truth.”

He breathed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry every day. I’m sorry with every bloody scrap of my heart that’s still in there somewhere.”

Anathema drew in a low breath when Crowley finished the story. 

“What if that was it for me?” Crowley asked in a tight, constricted voice. “I don’t deserve him, Anathema. I don’t deserve any of you.”

When Anathema turned back to him, his heart twisted to see tears swimming in her eyes. She reached across the sofa and took his hands in hers.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” she began.

“Shut up,” he choked out, beginning to well up himself.

“You actual gigantic softie,” Anathema went on. “Would you tell ANYONE ELSE- me, Newt, Hastur, Ligur, Aziraphale- that we only had one chance at being happy? That even our biggest mistakes should keep us from living the life we wanted?”

“It isn’t the same,” Crowley shook his head, tears crashing freely onto his trembling hands now. 

“Why isn’t it the same?”

“Because you’re good!” Crowley practically shouted, almost angry that she couldn’t see what he could. “Even Hastur and Ligur, the damn bastards. You’re… I’m… Anathema, what I did was _bad._ ”

“Oh, I agree. Massive fuck up.”

“So, how can I possibly deserve someone like Aziraphale?”

Anathema laughed, but it was a low, sad thing. “Crowley, we don’t end up with people because we deserve them. You know what you _deserve?_ And what Aziraphale deserves?”

Crowley shook his head, feeling stupid.

“Tell him what you told me,” Anathema went on. “Tell him and let him decide. You’re both big boys. He can handle it.”

Crowley closed his eyes and remembered the first time he saw Aziraphale in the club. How light and soft he’d looked. Crowley thought of all the times he wanted to reach out and spirit Aziraphale away from any harm that could possibly befall him.

As though she were reading his mind, Anathema squeezed Crowley’s hand and said, “You’re not protecting him by keeping this from him, Crowley. You’re not protecting him by not giving him all of you. Especially not if that’s what he wants.”

She drew Crowley’s hands up to her lips and kissed them softly. Crowley closed his eyes tightly, ashamed at his crying, ashamed at how quickly he was undone by any small act of tenderness.

“Tony,” she said, softly, rubbing the backs of his hands with her thumbs. “When you get onstage, the audience wants to learn something about you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell him.”

She gave his hands one final squeeze before getting to her feet. Crowley followed suit.

“I’m going to go now,” she said. “You need to sober up and get ready for your early wake-up call, okay?”

“Okay,” he sniffed.

“You didn’t teach us to be funny, Crowley.”

“Wow, thanks. I’m already fucking crying here.”

“You didn’t teach us to be funny, you magnificent prick. You taught us to be brave.”

Her eyes sparkly fiercely behind her glasses as she looked at him.

“You can do this, Crowley.”

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. He hugged her back tightly, burying his face in her hair and fighting the miserable howl threatening to escape his miserable body. 

“Thank you, Anathema.”

“Love you, Tony.”

“Love you too.”

She pulled away from him with a smile.

“Call me when you get there, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And call me when you make out with him, okay?”

“Jesus Christ, get out.”

Anathema hugged him one more time before walking out the front door of the flat. Crowley closed it behind her and then leaned his back against the door, sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor, a tangle of limbs and fucking feelings.

***

_Thursday morning, bright and fucking early._

Crowley knocked at the door.

“Two shakes of a lamb’s tail!” came the frantic, nervous response from inside the house.

Crowley rolled his eyes, unable to contain the grin that spread across his face. 

“Angel, it’s going to be a dark day in Hell if I’m actually ready to go before you are.”

The door swung open to reveal the most nervous Aziraphale that Crowley had ever seen. His eyes were big and wobbly. His cloud-hair was, if possible, more of a mess than usual. _His bow tie was askew._ The house’s little foyer, usually so tidy even in its impossible clutter, was strewn with various odds and ends. Crowley let out a low whistle at the sight.

“Have you been up all night packing, angel?”

“I’m afraid so,” Aziraphale’s voice was higher pitched than usual. He wrung his hands together. “I can’t stop shaking the awful feeling that I’ll forget something important.”

“They do have shops in Edinburgh, angel,” Crowley reminded him as gently as possible.

“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale acknowledged, hands still clasped anxiously together at his middle. 

Crowley reached out and took those hands.

_Explain to me why this isn’t as simple as you marching into that train station bright and early tomorrow morning and pulling that wonderful man into your skinny arms._

Crowley didn’t pull Aziraphale into his arms. Not yet.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hands reassuringly the way that Anathema had squeezed his own the night before.

Aziraphale looked at him with those worry-blue eyes.

“It’s all going to be fine, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed a little at that, mouth opening and closing as he searched for what he wanted to say. Finally:

“Do you promise?”

Anthony J. Crowley didn’t generally make promises. He was too accustomed to letting people down. And there were a lot of things he knew he couldn’t promise Aziraphale. Couldn’t promise him that he was ready to tell him the whole truth. Couldn’t promise that Aziraphale wouldn’t bomb at the festival. Couldn’t promise him that the rest of the course of human history would leave him untouched and unharmed. 

So, he chose his words as carefully as he ever had for any set in his entire life.

“I promise that I’ll be with you every step of the way. How’s that?”

Aziraphale rewarded his declaration with a shaky smile.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Well, that’s enough, then.”

Crowley wasn’t certain that it was. 

He squeezed Aziraphale’s hands one more time before releasing them. 

“Come on, angel. We’ve got a train to catch.”

Next stop: The End of the World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi dear friends! Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little chapter! I can't wait for us all to get to the Festival!


	8. strange bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Aziraphale and Crowley check into their hotel in Edinburgh on the eve of the End of the World Comedy Festival and Aziraphale grapples with his nerves._

_Thursday, a day before The End of the World (Comedy Festival.)_

Aziraphale Fell had encountered many reasonable causes for nervousness over the course of his life. The Shakespearean performances, the years of middle school teaching, and now: the stand-up comedy. As he and Crowley pushed through the front doors of their hotel in Edinburgh, he wished fervently that any of it could have prepared him for the heart-pounding nerves he felt now.

He’d only booked the one hotel room.

_He’d only booked the one hotel room._

They were circling a Conversation, Aziraphale knew (hoped). Part of him hoped that his procuring of the single room might serve as his part in said conversation. Hoped that he wouldn’t have to come out and directly say.

_“Um, yes, hello. It has come to my attention that I rather adore you and can think of no one with whom I’d rather share my time and space. Shall we share a restroom this weekend to make quite certain we can stand one another?”_

He swallowed audibly at the thought, drawing Crowley’s attention.

“All right, angel?” he murmured. 

_“Angel.”_ At first Aziraphale had heard that nickname with a sort of teasing fondness. It had been his first clue Crowley liked him, thought he was something special, wanted to be his friend. It had been easy at first to ignore the shiver the word sent down to his toes. But as they spent more time together, as they faced more challenges together, as they walked side by side up to the front desk of this quaint little inn, Aziraphale’s hopes and heart grew and grew and grew.

_“Angel.”_

“Angel?”

Aziraphale sputtered back to reality.

“Terribly sorry, my dear. What was that?”

“You all right?” Crowley asked again, this time with a gentle hand to Aziraphale’s shoulder that made him a little wobbly around the knees.

“Simply marvelous,” Aziraphale smiled, gratefully, fighting to be louder than the hammering in his heart.

Simply marvelous.

_And why shouldn’t you be, Aziraphale?_ questioned a snide voice. _A spot on a professional comedy festival, a handsome man who clearly adores you. It’s all rather lovely, isn’t it?_

_It is,_ Aziraphale whispered back in his own voice. _Oh, it truly is._

_So, why do you sound so cruel?_ He wondered.

Aziraphale swallowed again. Crowley frowned.

“Maybe you ought to have a lie down once we get upstairs,” Crowley suggested.

Aziraphale felt heat creep up his throat and blossom over his cheeks. Yes. A lie down. In one of the two beds.

In the one hotel room.

That he had booked.

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

Now, Aziraphale had standards, so, if he’d been capable of getting out of his own head for even a second, he might have had something to say about the decor of the little hotel lobby. Might have made a comment to Crowley about the stuffed animals perched lovingly on the squashy little velvet setees or about the heavy scent of incense in the air. The circumstances being what they were, though, he couldn’t rightly tell you how he made it to the front desk at all. He felt a bit like he was floating.

“Good afternoon, dears,” welcomed the smiling red-haired woman behind the front desk. “Welcome to Tracey’s.”

“Yes, hello,” Aziraphale smiled back, grateful for this woman’s hospitality. “There should be a reservation under Fell.”

Tracey (or so he presumed) clacked away at the old computer behind the desk, her brightly colored nails gleaming against the keys. “Fell… Fell… here we are, love. Four nights. What brings you to town?”

“He’s performing at the comedy festival,” Crowley swooped in. Aziraphale’s heart thumped at the pride in his voice. Thumped a bit at the closeness of Crowley now at his back. At the public suggestion of being two adults checking into a fancy little hotel together.  
Into the one room.

“Oh, how lovely,” Tracey responded as though she really meant it. “I used to be a performer myself, not precisely a comic, of course. I had a lovely little one-woman show. I used to go around the Fringe circuit.”

Her eyes suddenly twinkled with mischief and nostalgia. She raised her arms dramatically and affected a sort of hazier, more mystical voice.

“Madame Tracey,” she slipped effortlessly into character. “Drawing aside the veil everyday except Thursdays.”

“What’s on Thursdays?” Crowley wanted to know.

“Oh, a different show entirely, dearie,” Tracey retorted, giving Crowley an appreciative look up and down. 

As Crowley made an indignant sort of noise beside him, Aziraphale gratefully accepted the hotel room key card from Tracey, whom he decided at that moment to like quite a good deal. Mostly for her outward kindness and charm, but also a little for the way her words had caused Crowley to close in even closer to Aziraphale, the taller man tense at his side.

“Just the one key?” she wanted to confirm and, suddenly, all of Aziraphale’s nerves returned to him.

“Oh, I suppose one for each of us is a good idea.”

If Crowley, still blushing up to the roots of his hair over Tracey’s forwardness, was beginning to put anything together, he had the extreme kindness not to say anything. Tracey handed a second key card over to Aziraphale.

“Thank you,” he said to her.

“Call the front desk if you need anything, love,” she winked at them. “Anything at all.”

They wandered up the stairs to their floor, suddenly quiet. They walked equally quietly into the room. Aziraphale winced internally at the sheer plushness of the room. The decadent, brilliant colors. The soft, fluffy bedspreads. 

In the one hotel room.

“Crowley, I-”

“Listen, angel,” Crowley smirked his crooked smirk. “This is fine, but once you’re famous, I expect my own room, yeah?”

“Oh, hush.”

“A suite even. The penthouse.”

Aziraphale laughed, relieved.

“How about that lie down, then?”

Aziraphale paused and thought about it. He felt a lot of things, but tired wasn’t one of them.

“What about a walk instead, my dear?”

“Whatever you like, angel.”

***

They found a nice little park nearby. (Nice little parks being a comfortable space for them.) They began to walk the park in loops, talking about nearly nothing. Crowley, perhaps mistaking Aziraphale’s obvious nerves as being about his first performance tomorrow evening, brought up every non-comedy topic under the sun: the weather, the train ride there, the problem with horses, the nice little breakfast spot he’d researched for tomorrow morning before the- well, never mind before the _what,_ angel, just a nice little breakfast spot…

As he rambled, Aziraphale felt the knots in his stomach begin to loosen. Because he wasn’t actually nervous about tomorrow night. He was confident, finally, in his act, in his words. He was proud of the little onstage world he and Crowley had crafted together, and he was eager to show it off. Eager to prove, maybe: _“Look, my dear. Look at what wonders we can create when we’re together.”_

No, Aziraphale wasn’t nervous about being onstage.

He was nervous about Other Words. Words that were becoming harder and harder to ignore, words that, even now, while Crowley regaled him with a story about how he’d met Hastur and Ligur, Aziraphale felt bubbling up down in the depths of him. Those Other Words weren’t like a comedy routine, weren’t even like Shakespeare. 

There are no real rules on timing, for example.

“We used to hang around in old churchyards at night, can you believe it?” Crowley sighed beside him. “What a bunch of absolute wankers.”

_You’re not,_ Aziraphale wanted to protest. _You’re wonderful._

“Oh, I don’t think that,” Aziraphale said, surprising himself a little to hear the words out loud.

“Well, that’s what makes you an angel, then,” Crowley responded. Aziraphale noticed his hands retreating into those tight pockets.

“You know,” Aziraphale really couldn’t believe his ears now. “I think you use that name for me as an excuse as much as a form of affection, my dear.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley’s voice slipped into a low, warning tone which Aziraphale hadn’t heard in a long time.

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

“Well, if I’m an angel, what does that make you?” Aziraphale continued. “A demon, I suppose? My hereditary enemy?”

Crowley grimaced at that. “Yes, you’re very clever, Aziraphale. What’s your point?”

“My point, my dear,” Aziraphale fretted with his hands in front of his stomach, working up his nerve. “My point, I think, is that you call me ‘angel’ to convince yourself we couldn’t possibly belong together. That I’m some holy, untouchable thing which you don’t deserve.”

Crowley stopped in his tracks. Aziraphale thought he might have felt a stray raindrop plunk down onto his head, but he couldn’t possibly have cared. They were in it now. It was time. They were in a beautiful park at night on the eve of his professional comedy debut. It was time.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said right back with as much fondness as he could muster. 

They stood there, an impossible crackle racing between them, the stars beginning to make themselves known overhead, the scent of primrose heavy in the air. It was perfect, it was beautiful, it was- 

Without so much as a friendly _Fuck you_ to warn them, the sky began to pour in earnest. 

“Fuck!” roared Crowley against the elements, snatching his glasses away from his face as though he needed to see the unbelievable rain with his own eyes. 

Aziraphale blinked the rain from his eyes and… he started to laugh.

Aziraphale stood in the pelting rain, getting thoroughly soaked by the moment, and laughed and laughed. 

“What are you laughing about, you absolute maniac?” Crowley growled loudly at him.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to wipe the mingled tears of mirth and rainwater from his face. What would it have mattered?

“Don’t you see how ridiculous it all is?” Aziraphale managed, beginning to tingle with truth and hope all down his body. 

“The pair of us getting soaked like a couple of drowned rats, you mean?”

“Not that!” laughed Aziraphale, feeling suddenly impossibly warm despite the cold, heavy raindrops. 

“Let me in on the joke, then, before we drown, angel.”

Aziraphale stepped forward through the unfathomable gale and lifted a soaked hand to Crowley’s soaked face, feeling the beautiful man’s jaw muscles jerk in surprise against his touch.

“It’s funny,” Aziraphale explained, raising his voice to make certain Crowley heard him. “Because I was about to tell you how much I love you, my dear.”

Everything seemed to freeze around them, as though Crowley suddenly had the ability to stop time. The rain fell around them, no longer a threat, but a heavy quilt of a sea, inviting and beckoning them to slip underneath. They stood there, shivering from cold and longing, pinned together to a wall. Don’t breathe. Don’t ruin it. Don’t-

Crowley made an impossible noise in the back of his throat and seized Aziraphale’s hand in his own. He took off down the slippery path, back in what he dearly hoped was the direction of their little hotel, dragging Aziraphale behind him as fiercely and as carefully as he could manage at the same time.

For his part, Aziraphale just laughed again. 

(Tragedy plus time equals comedy, yes, but there’s certainly something to be said for the joy of something going well for once.)

Crowley very nearly broke the front door of the hotel. He snarled at the sight of the out-of-service elevator, turning to Aziraphale with wild, nearly apologetic eyes, language suddenly seeming impossible to him.

“The stairs, darling,” Aziraphale reminded him, heart beating furiously.

Crowley nodded and turned to the staircase, never once releasing Aziraphale’s hand. 

It’s nothing short of a minor miracle that they made it up those stairs at all, what with Crowley taking the steps three at a time and the soles of Aziraphale’s shoes slipping repeatedly. They did everything they could to stop the other one from falling.

The first time Crowley hurriedly swiped his key card at the old door, it blinked an unhelpful red back at him and Crowley cursed. Aziraphale squeezed his hand.

“It’s all right, my dear,” he whispered. “We’ve time enough.”

“No,” Crowley choked back. “It’s not all right.”

Crowley practically punched the door with the key card that time, earning him another angry red blink.

“Fuck!” he snarled.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand once before freeing himself from the grip. He gently tugged the key card away from Crowley who swore once more and leaned his forehead up against the door, shutting his eyes tightly.

Aziraphale leaned forward and pressed the key card gently to the door. The handle blinked a friendly green at him. Crowley went to open the door, but Aziraphale slipped in front of him, blocking him from entrance. They stood chest to chest, heart to heart, and Crowley opened his terrified, miserable eyes to Aziraphale.

“What if it isn’t time enough?” The words tore themselves out of Crowley’s throat. “What if none of it’s enough? What if I-”

“You are everything to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted, finding the words to be both a thrilling discovery on his tongue and a simple truth in his heart all at once. “You make me prouder to be a teacher, prouder to be a performer. You make apricot scones taste sweeter. You make a late night glass of wine all the more intoxicating. You-”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted him right back. “Do you want to get kissed for the first time in this awful hallway, or do you want to get kissed inside the nice room? This is a time-sensitive matter, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded and turned around, marveling at the feel of Crowley at his back, yearning to feel those arms wrapped around him at last. He opened the door to the room and slipped inside, Crowley fast at his heels.

They stood there in the dark. For a moment nothing was audible but the sounds of breathing and of water dripping on to the carpet. 

“Tell me,” Crowley finally said.

Aziraphale didn’t need to ask for clarification. He took a step backwards in the dark and leaned against Crowley’s chest. Crowley’s shaking, wet arms came to circle around his stomach, holding him tightly. Crowley pressed a kiss softly to the top of Aziraphale’s ear. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale said softly.

He turned carefully in Crowley’s arms, gazing up into the wide eyes he found there.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I love you.”

And Aziraphale remembered the Crowley he’d first seen, the Crowley for whom his heart had first leapt. He remembered the confident swagger and the way his fingers wrapped so certainly around the microphone. 

“You were like something out of another world,” Aziraphale remembered out loud.

“Ngk,” Crowly responded, fingers trembling at Aziraphale’s waist.

“I wanted to join you there so badly.” And it felt like a confession. Some ridiculous truth of the fussy book-loving gentleman who dreamed of the snarling, red-haired creature from The 9th Circle. 

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Crowley asked, a bit of his usual boldness breaking through the fear.

“I suppose I am,” Aziraphale worked his fingers up between their bodies to touch Crowley’s wet strands.

(Here’s the thing about first kisses:

They’re not always the best. You don’t know yet which speed is best, you have to adjust to this new mouth- Crowley’s lips being thinner than Aziraphale’s, just as an example-, you might bump teeth or noses, where ought hands go this first time? 

It’s usually something of a mess.

The truest mark of a Good First Kiss is in the willingness to try again.)

Which they did. 

Just like his fingers and hands and legs, Crowley’s lips shook ever so slightly against Aziraphale’s own as they pressed together the third, fourth, fifth time. They were soft and tentative, gentle and curious.

“What do you like?” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s mouth. “Teach me.”

_Teach me._

Aziraphale pulled his face just enough away and took Crowley’s chilled hands in his own. He moved backwards through the unfamiliar room, pulling Crowley along in his wake. He eventually sat himself on one of the two beds and hushed Crowley softly at the sudden look of alarm on his face.

“Sit with me, darling, please.”

Crowley did. Aziraphale reached beside him for Crowley’s hand, threading their fingers together.

“Breathe, Crowley,” Aziraphale instructed gently, drawing on years of practice.

Crowley sucked in a harsh breath, still appearing to be near to shaking out of his skin. Aziraphale rubbed his thumb softly over the back of Crowley’s hand.

“I would very much like to kiss you again,” Aziraphale said. “But I rather think perhaps a hot shower and a conversation might be in order first.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley groaned. “‘M making it weird.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, firmly, every nerve from earlier that day, that week, that month fading away from him in the face of what Crowley needed. “Not at all. Anything worth doing is worth doing properly. You go warm up this instant and then we’ll talk for as long as we need, all right?”

Crowley nodded, leaving his head downcast, water pooling at his forehead and dripping still onto the hotel room floor.

“Crowley, I need you to say something, please.”

“You’re very good at this,” Crowley observed, finally tilting his head to look back at Aziraphale.

“Well,” Aziraphale thought about that. “Well, I suppose it might be because I’ve been quite awful at it before.”

Crowley’s eyes went wide again. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

Aziraphale laughed, a little sadly. “Take a shower, my dear. I’ll have some tea brought up.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand before wobbling up his feet. He didn’t look at Aziraphale when he said, “I’ve been bad at it before, too.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale said again, carefully. “I love you and,” (Breathe, Aziraphale.) “You love me and the rest will just be practice, I suspect. And we’re good at that together, aren’t we?”

Crowley turned around, eyes nearly glowing in the darkness of the unlit room. He was so radiant Aziraphale quite nearly forgot every lovely platitude he’d said about being careful and taking their time. 

“I do, you know,” Crowley said. 

“I do know. What sort of tea would you like?”

“Whatever you like, angel.”

“No, that’s the point,” Aziraphale chided. “What we both like now.”

Crowley surged forward then, dropping to his knees before the side of the bed and cupping Aziraphale’s jaw in his hands. He hissed a little at the contact, clenching his eyes shut again as though the sight of Aziraphale were too overwhelming. Aziraphale brought his hands up to cover Crowley’s. 

“Black,” Crowley muttered. “Something black and spicy, please. For tea.”

“Of course, dear.”

Crowley pressed another shaky kiss to Aziraphale’s lips before retreating to the bathroom. Aziraphale sat quietly on the bed for a moment, the ghost of Crowley’s fingers on his face distracting him from all his well-meaning plans. He never wanted to drink tea again if it meant he could go to Crowley now, could join him in the hot shower, could…

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

And then:

_Timing._

Aziraphale rang the front desk and ordered their tea (all right, and perhaps a bit of cake).

“Of course, love,” Tracey said into the phone. “Only you’ll have to come down here to pick it up. My knees aren’t what they once were.”

Aziraphale hung up the phone and got to his feet. He walked over to the door of the room and reminded himself the person he loved would still be there when he got back.

He opened the door. 

_Present mirth hath present laughter_

_(What’s to come is still unsure)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! We'll get back into jokes and whatnot so soon, I promise, but I was so-super-ready for a first kiss interlude. I can't with these two. 
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> (End quotes from _Twelfth Night,_ because I'm always looking to sneak more Shakespeare into this thing.)


	9. that's comedy, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Crowley makes a panicked phone call in a hotel bathroom (like you do) and some more conversations are had._

Crowley turned on the water as soon as he closed the bathroom door behind him. He did not, however, get into the shower immediately.

No, he fished his mobile out of his damp pocket with trembling fingers and he called Anathema.

“Hi, oh my God, are you there, has he kissed you, where are you, have you kissed him?” Anathema answered, breathlessly.

Crowley didn’t know which question to answer first, so he just tried to keep breathing. He breathed slowly and purposefully into the mobile, completely lost as to how to start. 

“Tony,” came the kind voice from far, far away. “Are you okay, friend?”

“Friend” jolted something alive in him, pathetic bastard that he was.

“Anathema,” Crowley croaked, his voice a thick blend of wonder and panic. Fuck, was he about to start crying? FUCK. 

“What happened? Where are you? Where’s Aziraphale?”

“He’s in the next room, ordering some tea.”

“Probably should have guessed that one, huh?”

“He loves me, Anathema.”

There was a gasp followed by a squeal followed by an “I KNEW IT!” Followed by another squeal. Crowley grinned despite himself. Anathema’s intense reaction made the whole situation feel… sort of real. Aziraphale loved him. The little dream he’d kept locked deep in his slight, angry heart might be coming true. _Once upon a time there was an angry bastard of a comedian named Anthony J. Crowley..._

Aziraphale loved him.

“Wait,” Anathema said next. “If he loves you, why is he in the next room and why is his tongue occupied with literally anything else?”

Crowley snorted at that. “You’re a bit of a pervert, you know that?”

“Crowley, why on Earth are you calling me right now?”

“We got caught in the rain,” Crowley explained, grinning further still when Anathema let out an impossibly dreamy sigh. “And we ran back to our hotel and he told me he loved me and he kissed me-”

“TONY, I’M THRILLED TO KNOW ALL OF THIS, BUT WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME RIGHT NOW?”

“I’m in the bathroom,” Crowley lowered his voice to a whisper, suddenly a bit concerned that Anathema’s loud enthusiasm might get them kicked out of the hotel. “I’m supposed to be taking a shower.”

“And I ask again,” Oh, Crowley could perfectly envision the twinkle in Anathema’s eyes. “Why is Aziraphale not in the shower with you right now?”

Crowley’s grin faded as he remembered.

“We’re… we’re going to have a conversation first.”

“Oh,” Anathema’s voice shifted gears right away. “Which conversation?”

“I think… I think The Conversation.”

There was a silence on the other end that stopped Crowley’s blood cold. 

“Please keep talking to me?” he asked quietly, working hard not to hate himself for the request.

“Sure, of course,” Anathema answered back right away. “I’m just thinking, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What do you want?” Anathema asked.

And Crowley was tired and terrified and soaking wet, so he thought he might give sincerity a try. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Anathema, I want to hold his hand and bring him flowers. I want the first thing I do each morning to be getting his tea exactly right. I want to be in charge of his birthday cake. I want-”

“Tony,” Anathema gasped on the other hand.

Crowley looked at himself in the mirror. Looked at the long, thin ghoul staring back at him with wild, yellow eyes, fire-red hair plastered to his forehead and neck. He looked like a fucking monster, Crowley mused with a miserable lurch in his stomach. Red hair, yellow eyes, stupid black clothes… What was the rule about red, yellow, and black snakes? Which ones were venomous? Which ones were dangerous?

Crowley swore under his breath, momentarily forgetting that Anathema was still there.

“Tony,” she said again, softly but firmly.

“I just love him, Anathema,” Crowley whispered. “I want to be allowed to love him.”

“I know you do, dear friend. And that’s beautiful.”

“So, why do I feel so shitty?”

“Because you’ve spent years convincing yourself you’re some awful, horrible thing,” Anathema sounded sad and Crowley wanted to smash his head into the mirror so that he never had to look at himself again. “Why can’t you trust us that you’re wrong?”

Crowley didn’t have an answer for that.

“Why can’t you forgive yourself, Crowley?”

Crowley snorted again. “Unforgivable, Anathema. That’s what I am.”

“You’re wrong. And I bet Aziraphale thinks so too.”

Before Crowley could argue:

“Tony,” Anathema said, her voice thick with an earnest love he didn’t know he could bear. “We love you. Aziraphale loves you. Imagine what life could be like if you got with the program and started loving yourself.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut again. He was definitely going to cry, fuck his entire stupid life.

“I love you,” Anathema continued. “And I believe in you. So, take a shower, take a deep breath, and go tell that wonderful man the truth.”

“Okay,” he choked.

“And call me back whenever you need, all right?”

“All right.”

“Love you, Tony.”

“I love you too, Anathema.”

The mobile clicked to silence and Crowley felt terribly alone. He scrunched up his face, fighting the misery welling up in him, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t supposed to go this way, this first night he kissed Aziraphale Fell. He wasn’t supposed to be a disaster this soon. He was supposed to be able to keep it together for a FUCKING NIGHT.

_“Breathe, Crowley.”_

He did. 

Crowley finally stepped into the shower. As was frustratingly common, the shower didn’t really seem designed with tall people in mind. Crowley crouched a little to get his head under the stream and wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly deeply covetous of any warmth he could get.

“Get it together,” he growled to himself, the hot water trickling down his body. 

He snarled again.

_No. Fuck. Stop being a dick to yourself._

“It’s okay,” he tried again, murmuring to himself. “You’re okay, Crowley.”

He didn’t believe it yet, but it was nice to hear all the same. 

He forced himself to take his time with all the little hotel shampoos and soaps and whatnot. Forced himself for once not to rush through taking care of himself. Aziraphale was out there. He’d just gone to get tea. He was waiting. Crowley hadn’t fucked it up.

_Yet._

“You’re okay, Anthony,” he said again, surprising himself with the use of his first name. 

Crowley stepped out of the shower and realized with horror that he’d not actually brought any dry clothes into the bathroom with him. Hanging up on the wall beside the towels was a set of truly awful fluffy pink bathrobes. Crowley ran his fingers through his clean, wet hair and swore.

“This might as well happen.”

He slipped the soft robe over his shoulders and belted it as tightly as he possibly could around his waist. He surveyed himself once more in the mirror. He felt a little bit like an Easter Bunny gone terribly, terribly wrong.

“Funny,” he sang to himself. “Did you hear that? Funny…”

Crowley placed his hand on the bathroom door, trying not to feel too keenly or awarely that, quite possibly, the rest of his entire life lived on the other side of that door.

Aziraphale sat at the little desk, two mugs of tea in front of him, tucked into the corner of the room. The beds loomed conspicuously between the two of them. Aziraphale’s lips twitched fondly at the sight of Crowley in the robe. 

“Thought I’d try something new,” Crowley answered the questioning smile, gesturing to his ridiculous self.

“It’s a remarkable look, my dear.”

Crowley crossed the room and slumped onto the bed nearest the desk. Aziraphale passed him his cup of tea. They clinked cups in a silent toast and each took a second to steady himself, drinking deeply of the hot tea. 

“How is Anathema doing?” Aziraphale asked finally, smiling kindly.

Oh, fuck.

“She’s good,” Crowley answered, looking down at the mug in his hands. “I think. Erm, honestly, we didn’t really get around to talking about how she’s doing. I’m a shit friend, really.”

“Maybe you just needed her more than she needed you tonight. I think that’s the mark of a beautiful friendship.”

“I haven’t had friends in a long time. Not really, anyway.”

Aziraphale nodded his head and sipped his tea. “Nor I neither.”

Crowley took a deep swig of his own tea, relishing the sudden flood of warmth. Flavors of orange and spice lingered on his tongue and he wished he could be kissing Aziraphale again, sharing that sweetness with him. 

_Talk first, kiss later._

“What do you need from me, Crowley?”

“You’re still soaked all the way through, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, well. I think I need to have this conversation before I can do anything else, my dear.”

“Yeah. Fair.”

“May I start with a question, my dear?”

“Anything, angel.”

“Your reaction to our kiss… to what I told you…” Aziraphale’s lips wobbled as he spoke, clearly working hard to continue looking at Crowley’s face. “Have I overstepped? Have I done something wrong?”

Crowley shook his wet head violently. “No. Never.”

“Then why do you seem so miserable, Crowley?”

Crowley drummed his fingers against the warm mug. “Twenty years ago…”

_Once upon a time there was a strange, young man named Anthony J. Crowley. He was talented and promising and someone good and kind loved him with his full heart. And I wish there was an evil witch or a beguiling serpent to blame, but the truth is just he fucked it all up. He fucked it all up about as hard as a strange, young man even can fuck things up._

Crowley told Aziraphale the entire story. It felt like only yesterday- fuck, two days ago?- he’d told Anathema the same story. About Fred, about Hollywood, all of it. He felt exhausted and small, baring his ugly heart to the soft lighting of this floofy hotel room, before the ever-present and softer-still glow of Aziraphale. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Aziraphale said in a quiet voice. Crowley nodded, too tired to say anything else. “May I tell you a story now?”

Crowley nodded again.

_Once upon a time there was an angel named Aziraphale Fell. He was good and sweet and kind and clever, but he was also scared. His cowardice hurt people. Fellow good, sweet, kind, clever people who loved him. He didn’t want to hurt them anymore, so he went away and locked himself up in a tower called Tadfield Middle School. He had long given up hope anyone might be coming to rescue him._

“We all make mistakes, Crowley,” Aziraphale concluded, tears now dripping freely down both their faces. “We learn from them. We do better.”

“Aziraphale, I want to do better by you more than I think I’ve ever wanted to do anything,” Crowley confessed. 

“And I you, sweet friend,” Aziraphale admitted right back. “It’s like a dream, stealing away to this festival with you.”

“Like a bloody fairytale, really.”

“And I adore fairytales,” Aziraphale acknowledged. “But I love you beyond that. I love you beyond comedy classes and festivals.”

Crowley forgot every word he’d ever known. He stood up and swept Aziraphale into his arms, hugging him ferociously. They stood like that for a long time, two damp, anxious comedians, holding each other and still crying a little and working hard to keep breathing. 

“I think I will take that shower now,” Aziraphale sniffed after a bit, wiping at his eyes. 

“Take your time. I’ll be here,” Crowley promised.

Aziraphale smiled and retreated to the bathroom. Crowley retrieved his mobile again and started pushing buttons with (finally) steady fingers.

_C: Talked. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay._

_…_

_A: I’m so fucking proud of you._

_C: You’re not allowed to be proud of me. I’m the teacher, remember?_

_A: You’re an idiot in snakeskin boots and I love you terribly._

_C: I love you too._

_…_

_C: Thanks._

_A: Anytime. Now go tear his bow tie off with your teeth, okay?_

_C: Good night, Anathema._

Aziraphale returned from the bathroom in his own ridiculously pink robe. Crowley nodded his approval as he stowed his mobile on the nightstand between the two beds. 

“Suits you,” he said. 

“May I please hold you, darling?”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale smiled and stepped forward. He took a seat beside Crowley on the bed and lifted a warm hand up to brush the still-damp hair off of Crowley’s forehead. Crowley sighed at the touch.

“Oh, my lovely friend,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Angel,” Crowley replied.

Aziraphale placed his hands on Crowley’s shoulders and gently bore him back against the pillows. Crowley shifted to lie on his side, certain his heart was going to explode out of his body. The warmth and softness of Aziraphale at his back was the most comforting feeling he’d ever known. He closed his eyes as Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him. Crowley closed his eyes and wished he could live inside of this moment for the rest of eternity.

“Isn’t this a bit early for you to fall asleep, Aziraphale?” Crowley murmured, already drifting off, entirely exhausted.

“Yes, but it’s entirely too late for me to be holding you like this.”

“Corny.”

“Shut up and get some sleep, my dear.”

Crowley nuzzled into the pillows and pulled Aziraphale’s arms more tightly around him, falling into the loveliest sleep he’d yet known. 

***

_Friday morning, the first day of the End of the World Comedy Festival._

The quaint little breakfast place filled Crowley with an embarrassing sort of hope. As they were seated at their table, Crowley was reminded violently of Jasmine Cottage. He thought back to all the days and nights he’d already spent there with Aziraphale, poring over jokes, telling stories, trying not to faint over Aziraphale eating cake.

He wondered what would be different about outings to the Jasmine Cottage now. Would they hold hands across their table? Better not. Anathema would never be able to handle it.

Well, Anathema wasn’t there now. And it was his first opportunity to love Aziraphale in the light of day. So, Crowley took a deep breath and pulled back Aziraphale’s chair for him. Aziraphale looked so delighted and Crowley didn’t know whether to feel terribly pleased with himself or to try to panic-swallow an entire menu.

_Breathe, Crowley._

“All right, angel,” Crowley said once they had placed their orders. “You’ve got a show tonight. Warm up time.”

Aziraphale cracked his knuckles and Crowley loved him.

“Eggs,” Crowley offered, taking inspiration from their recently served breakfast dishes.

“99 eggs walk into a bar,” Aziraphale launched into the patter of the game immediately. “The barkeep says, ‘We don’t serve eggs here,’ and the eggs say, ‘Well, that’s fine, this place isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be.’”

Crowley clinked his spoon against his coffee cup. “Excellent.”

“Eggs-cellent, even?”

Crowley barked a stupidly in-love laugh before continuing. “Bacon.”

“99 stips of bacon walk into a bar. The barkeep says, ‘We don’t serve bacon here, and the bacon says, ‘Well, that’s very piggish of you.’”

“Coffee.”

“99 cups of coffee walk into a bar. The barkeep says, ‘We don’t serve cups of coffee here, and the coffee says, ‘Oh, can’t you make an exception this once? We promise not to spill the beans.’”

Crowley didn’t generally assume he’d end up in Heaven, so he didn’t bother to imagine it often. If he’d been hard pressed to picture it, though, coming up with puns with Aziraphale over a fancy breakfast might have been it. 

“Okay, one more,” Crowley grinned. “Pancakes.”

Aziraphale grinned right back. And Crowley loved him when he was nervous, but he was quite nearly overwhelmed when Aziraphale was something close to confident. When Aziraphale showed any kind of glimmer that perhaps he knew he was as wonderful as Crowley knew him to be.

“99 pancakes walk into a bar. The barkeep says, ‘We don’t serve pancakes,’ and the pancakes say, ‘Well, there’s no need to get into such a flap, Jack.’”

Crowley leaned across the table to kiss him. 

Breakfast was a perfectly lovely affair, which made it all the worse when, just as Crowley was about to tempt Aziraphale with the idea of a second pastry situation, fucking Michael Archer strode purposefully into the restaurant and directly to their table. She was entirely too put-together to do an actual double take at the sight of them together. At the sight of hasbeen Anthony J. Crowley leaning over the table towards Aziraphale Fell, impossibly and obviously smitten. 

Her eyes did widen a touch, though. 

“Anthony J. Crowley,” Michael looked at him as though he were something supremely distasteful. “What a surprise to see you here.”

Crowley felt his blood begin to boil at the disdain in her voice, felt that familiar urge to pick a fight.

But then he looked across the table again at Aziraphale. 

Protect him. Always.

“The one and only,” he finally responded lamely, tipping his coffee cup in a salute.

“Still a comedian at all?” she asked, not that it sounded as though she cared even a little bit.

“Well, what else am I supposed to be?” he grinned back at her, fury ringing in his ears. “An aardvark?”

“Yes,” she mused back. “There’s that quick wit and brilliance that got you so much attention in Hollywood. I remember now. Forgive me.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s eyes on him, but he didn’t dare meet them. Didn’t dare face Aziraphale’s shock on his behalf. If they were going to do this, Aziraphale was going to have to get used to people talking to him like the dick he’d definitely once been. 

“Aziraphale,” Michael turned back to him. “I need to steal you away and get you prepared for tonight.”

And Crowley wasn’t proud, but the phrase “steal you away” was daggers to his weak heart. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale looked back and forth from Michael to Crowley, clearly uncomfortable by the interaction so far. “Well. Yes. I suppose I must, then. Crowley?”

Fuck. It was the night of the student showcase all over again, only somehow worse. Crowley didn’t know if he’d ever get used to the awful feeling of Aziraphale getting up and walking away from him.

_That’s part of it, though,_ his brain whispered in a kind voice that didn’t sound much unlike Anathema’s. _Letting him go and trusting he’s coming back._

“Go on, then, angel,” Crowley said, softly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand once. “I’ll see you at the show.”

Aziraphale smiled that perfect smile at him and stood up from the table. Crowley watched him walk away with Michael, slipping out the door of the little restaurant. 

Crowley knocked back the rest of his coffee and called up Anathema.

She didn’t answer.

_I’m at work, Tony,_ he imagined her saying. _I’ll call you as soon as I can. I’m still here._

Okay.

Crowley wished he’d been able to tag along with Aziraphale and Michael. Wished he had any kind of purpose for the rest of the day before basking in Aziraphale’s radiance. 

_“Still a comedian at all?”_

Crowley laughed bitterly out loud. _Barely,_ he mused honestly. He’d been so focused on not fucking up the intro class and now so focused on Aziraphale, he hadn’t thought about his own material in ages.

Crowley frowned as he remembered his own comedy. Where once there had been an awful, sinking, horrid anxiety at the mere thought of his lack of new jokes, there was now… something like calm? When he sat now at this idyllic little breakfast place in the light of a brave new world wherein he was allowed to kiss Aziraphale Fell, his daydreams were only of more kissing. Of more breakfasts spent in one another’s company. And maybe of getting the intro class gang back together for some wackiness. 

Together. Yeah. He thought of togetherness.

Crowley checked his pocket. His little notebook was still there, purely out of habit at this point. His trousers would feel wrong without it. 

Aziraphale was going to crush it onstage tonight and Crowley would be there to meet him afterwards. To hold his hand and to kiss him and (maybe, hopefully, fuck, please?) to not have a complete nervous breakdown.

Yeah. 

Crowley signaled for another cup of coffee and put pen to paper. For the first time in a long time, he felt more excitement than fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It might be a bit before the next update. I really want to do right by you fine folks, and I think I need to step back and really think about where this silly thing is going next. So, thank you for your patience! You're all wonderful and it is an honor that you are reading my story. I hope you are doing just swell!


	10. tragedy plus time equals...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Aziraphale takes the stage on the first night of the End of the World Comedy Festival._

_1997\. A Wednesday morning, not that it especially matters._

Aziraphale gasped at the news, clapping his hands to his mouth in delight and surprise all while his stomach churned miserably. Ray had worked so hard for this position, had put in so much of his time and effort and self, and it was wonderful news, it really was, only it meant… well, Aziraphale assumed it meant-

“Come with me,” Ray tugged Aziraphale into his lap and kissed insistently at his throat.

Aziraphale thought it a rather unfair move, all things considered, as it was very difficult to be particularly thoughtful and practical when hot, lingering kisses were being pressed to his neck.

“But what about…” gasped Aziraphale, struggling to remember anything that wasn’t the feel of Ray’s lips on his skin. “What about my offer from the RSC, darling?”

Ray pulled away immediately, his hands still tight on Aziraphale’s waist.

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me, baby,” Ray said, green eyes sparkling with want.

“Well, and for me as well,” Aziraphale offered, a little more meekly.

Ray laughed at that, not unkindly. “Aziraphale, with as much money as I’ll be making, you can start your own Shakespeare company. I’ll be your handsome, mysterious benefactor.”

It was sort of a sweet thing to say, but… _I don’t want to start my own Shakespeare company,_ Aziraphale wanted to say out loud, but those furious lips were on his skin again. 

_I want to belong to the RSC._

“Besides,” Ray went on in between kisses. “I’d never get to see you. Me working long hours at the firm and you onstage every weekend? Maybe it’s time to get a proper job for you as well.”

It was Aziraphale who tugged away this time. He straightened his bow tie and looked down at his lap, unable to meet Ray’s eyes just then.

“Acting is a proper job.”

Ray grabbed Aziraphale’s hands. “Of course, baby. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that, if we’re working different hours all the time, how will I ever get to see you? I miss you, you know that.”

Aziraphale didn’t know that. But oh, he wanted it to be the truth.

 _My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love as deep._

“What will I do?” Aziraphale asked, every bit the actor, desperate for some direction.

“You’re clever,” Ray stroked Aziraphale’s curls. “Maybe you could be a teacher. I like that.”

“What do you like about it?”

“Means I don’t have to worry about crazed fans at the stage door trying to steal you away from me.”

Aziraphale’s laugh turned into a moan as Ray grazed his teeth over Aziraphale’s shoulder. He knew it was ridiculous, the height of nonsense. The idea of someone seeing him onstage and being so bewitched by him. Ray was the only one who loved him, he knew that. 

And Ray was handsome and successful and touched Aziraphale like he was something desirable and he made Aziraphale feel a little bit like a prince in a story book and he thought this might be the story of him.

(Ray wasn’t a monster, not really. Some stories just have sad endings.)

Once Ray fell asleep, Aziraphale called up his agent and delivered him the awful, wonderful news.

He was choosing love. He would always choose love. 

***

 _Present day, Friday night, the first night of the End of the World Comedy Festival._

Aziraphale stood onstage, feeling rather… Oh, what was it? It was so utterly unfamiliar and lovely. 

Powerful.

Nervous, fluttery Aziraphale Fell thought of Anthony J. Crowley’s hands on his own and he felt as though he could take on the entire world whether it was ending or not. He thought of the strange man who liked him exactly as he was. He thought, always, of making Crowley proud.

He was intoxicated on the pride of Anthony J. Crowley. He practically swaggered up to the microphone with it.

Sure, of course, Michael had expressed her disapproval-bordering-on-horror as soon as they’d left the breakfast restaurant but, for once, Aziraphale hardly cared what this put-together, obviously successful human being thought of him. 

He thought perhaps it was a little bit to do with how nervous poor Crowley had been the night before. Crowley, who had done so much for him. Crowley, who had made him so brave. What was the point of that bravery now if he couldn’t protect the person he loved?

So, he nodded politely as Michael made her concerns known and he promised to take it under advisement, but really he just thought of getting through his set that night so he could get back to the hotel and kiss Crowley senseless. 

It was really remarkable, this bravery business. It was even more remarkable, beginning to fashion the sort of life you thought you could never have. 

“Good evening, everyone,” Aziraphale pleasantly greeted the crowd. He felt something like suspicion radiating off of them. Who was this strange old man who dared take the stage at their cool, hip comedy festival? How had he and his bow tie wormed their way onto the bill in the first place? Who did he think he was?

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked over the tops of all their heads to a familiar shock of red hair hanging around the back of the tent. 

_Despise me, then. You wouldn’t be the first,_ Aziraphale thought defiantly. _This isn’t for you._

And a thought more surprising as he looked out at Crowley’s head again:

 _This isn’t even really for you, my darling. Not all of it, anyway._

Aziraphale smiled and pulled the microphone free.

“Fret not, my dears, I see your confusion,” Aziraphale addressed the crowd. “This is indeed still a comedy show and not a guest lecture.”

Some first grateful murmurs of laughter.

“I do still hope you’ve all done the required reading, though.”

Aziraphale heard Crowley’s barking cackle above the rest of the laughter in the tent and his heart was ablaze. 

Aziraphale launched into his material from the showcase, thrilled as he went along to discover the potential behind new pauses, new inflections, new emphases. He felt a bit like a conductor, drawing the crowd along with him on the ups and downs of the jokes, quieting them when he wanted them and encouraging them to raucous applause when he wanted it.

When _he_ wanted it. 

“Yes, I am a gay man,” Aziraphale recited, knowing now to hold for applause.

“Thank you, my dears,” AzIraphale said, and he meant it. “That does make up a little for the validation my mother never gave me.”

A mixture of giggles and “aww’s”. Aziraphale drank it all in, remembering something Anathema had said to him when they’d first met:

_If I can make someone laugh with all of my bullshit, then maybe it was all worth it after all._

Aziraphale thought about his own… bullshit. It usually all made him want to curl into a tight ball and cry into a good, moist sponge cake. 

Just now it all felt rather hysterical. 

“It can be lonely sometimes being an older, single gay man,” Aziraphale continued. “Jane Austen only wrote six novels, after all, so really, what else am I supposed to do with my time?”

As they laughed, Aziraphale suddenly wanted to tell them anything. Everything. They were laughing with him, finally. They liked his words, they liked his jokes, they liked him. 

They liked him.

He wanted them to keep liking him. 

“I did have a boyfriend once upon a time.”

_Breathe, Aziraphale._

“He was terribly handsome and I was very young and silly. Did you know I was once a Shakespearean actor?”

Aziraphale prompted the crowd for a response and tutted when they shook their heads or offered him a drunken “No!”

“Oh, my dears, dressed like this, what else did you think I was qualified to do? The first time you put a waistcoat on, someone hands you a copy of _Pericles,_ those are just the rules, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale let the laughter die down before continuing.

“I loved this handsome boyfriend so much that I let him convince me to stop being a Shakespearean actor.”

And this. Oh, this was even stronger than the laughter. A sort of hush descended upon the crowd at that revelation. They had entered into a sacred contract now, the comic and the audience. He would trust them to bear his sad stories well, and they would trust him to get them out of it unscathed. As God as his witness, Aziraphale would allow none of them to leave this tent feeling sorry for him. 

“This isn’t really a joke, but I think it’s worth saying anyway,” Aziraphale confessed to the crowd. “No one who wants you to give up what makes you happy loves you the way you deserve. Do you understand, my dears?”

There was nodding and applauding and cheering, and Aziraphale appreciated it all very much. 

Maybe all his bullshit had been worth it after all.

“I think I might have another chance, though,” Aziraphale sat down cross-legged on the stage, addressing the audience now as though they were at a slumber party together.

“Ooh’s” now from the crowd. Aziraphale blushed despite himself. 

“Do you want to know about him?”

The audience hollered impossibly. Aziraphale couldn’t help himself; he laughed at their reaction.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to come to my set tomorrow night to find out,” he apologized, sincerely sorry his set was coming to a close. “That’s my time for tonight, I’ve been Aziraphale Fell. Thank you and good evening!”

He hopped back to his feet, feeling younger and lighter than he had in years. He strolled off the stage to immense applause.

“Keep it going for Aziraphale Fell!” he heard the host call out behind him.

 _Yes,_ he thought with an unfamiliar confidence. _Do keep it going for Aziraphale Fell._

He was pulled from his reverie by a bit of a fuss backstage.

“Sir, this area’s for performers only. You need a badge to get through.”

“Well, that’s a bit vague, isn’t it? Will any badge do? ‘Cause I can go rustle up a badge,” hissed a familiar voice. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale waved at his cantankerous companion who was currently staring up at a solemn security guard. “He’s with me,” Aziraphale tried out on the serious guard.

“Of course, Mr. Fell.”

And he stepped aside to let Crowley through. 

Oh. Oh, that felt nice.

Crowley let out an impressed whistle.

“Well, hello to you, _Mr. Fell._ ”

Crowley was grinning a grin that was almost too big for his lean face. After all his bluster onstage, Aziraphale felt suddenly nervous again. Suddenly wondered if he’d said too much, if he’d been too much. It was unplanned material, after all, talking about Ray, alluding to Crowley… perhaps he should have asked permission first? What were the rules about talking about people onstage?

Crowley stepped forward and pulled Aziraphale fiercely against him.

“You were fucking brilliant,” he growled into his ear.

Aziraphale hugged him back as tightly as he could.

"Do you have ex-boyfriend's address, by the way? I'm sending Anathema off to put a hex on him."

Aziraphale laughed and hugged him tighter. 

“Can we go back to the hotel now, please?” Aziraphale whispered, clinging to the remnants of his own boldness. 

Crowley pulled away, surprise on his face. “Don’t you want to go out and celebrate, angel? I’ve looked up all the best dessert places nearby. I’ve got quite a list, actually.”

“And I want to patronize each and every one of them,” Aziraphale promised, trailing off, nerves catching up to him.

“But?” Crowley prompted.

For the first time in a long time, Aziraphale Fell dared to want exactly what he wanted. 

“But tonight I just want to be with you,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

Crowley threaded his fingers through Aziraphale’s and tugged him gently in the direction of the exit.

“Then that’s what you’ll get, angel. Whatever you want.”

Aziraphale believed him, he realized with near-frightening certainty. Crowley would give him whatever he wanted. Aziraphale vowed to Someone he would do his best to never abuse such devotion. 

Aziraphale ignored the ring of the mobile in his pocket as they strolled hand in hand back to the hotel. Whoever it was could wait until tomorrow. 

He was choosing Crowley tonight. He was choosing himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this little chapter, and for your kindness and patience! I worry sometimes there isn't enough conflict in the back half of this story, but dammit, I just really want them to be happy, you know?


	11. bombing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Aziraphale's first set at the festival, he and Crowley return victoriously to Tracey's hotel.

On their way back from the festival, Crowley did his absolute best to pull Aziraphale through the front door to Tracey’s hotel with some modicum of dignity. He flushed a little as he remembered their evening caught in the rain together. At how fiercely he had dragged Aziraphale through the torrents to get him back to comfort and to safety and to privacy.

One night of the festival was now safely in the books and, fuck, Aziraphale had been brilliant. Crowley’s heart thrummed with pride. He couldn’t believe he was capable of being so elated on behalf of another person. He couldn’t believe any of it. Just months ago, he’d been on the verge of something like misery, though he wouldn’t have been brave enough to admit it to anyone. Just months ago, he’d been washed up, a has-been, doomed to the same pattern of Twitter fights, lousy open mic nights, picking at Anathema… for close to eternity, it seemed.

Now he dared to chance a glance back at the smiling, impossibly beautiful man whose hand he held and anything seemed possible. Crowley’s notebook felt heavier in his pocket, laden down as it now was with ideas and jokes and possibilities.

Fuck, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Crowley stopped abruptly in his tracks right there in the hotel lobby before they even reached the staircase. He spun around so quickly he nearly knocked himself and Aziraphale over. That little scrap of dignity continued to wane as Crowley placed his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s face and kissed him nearly as deeply as he felt.

From her perch at the front desk, Tracey applauded them. Crowley grinned against Aziraphale’s mouth. Now, this was the sort of applause he could handle without having told a joke yet. He imagined admitting that to Anathema and started to laugh out loud at the vision of her expression.

Aziraphale laughed himself as he pulled away. “What precisely is so funny, my dear?”

Crowley told the truth. Aziraphale had that effect on him. 

“I’m flattered, Crowley,” Aziraphale did that perfect head dip that made Crowley nearly furious with affection. “The best applause you’ve ever gotten?”

“Never told a joke that felt that good,” Crowley felt defiantly in love, ready to say all the silliest things.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled. “What about an encore performance?”

Aziraphale seized Crowley gently and _fucking dipped him_ right there in the lobby. 

Tracey gave them a standing ovation.

***

Several kisses later, they finally returned triumphantly to their hotel room.

“Champagne!” barked Crowley, clapping his hands together. “To celebrate your festival debut!”

“You’ll have to go back down to get it,” Aziraphale reminded him. “Tracey’s knees?”

“Oh, right,” Crowley frowned. “Wait, why am I the one who has to go back down?”

“Because,” Aziraphale flopped backwards onto the bed and Crowley gaped at the notion of _Aziraphale flopping._ “I’m far too exhausted from performing. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Crowley mocked him, loved him.

Crowley likewise flopped onto his belly on the bed, perching himself up on his elbows to get a good look at Aziraphale. 

He really was beautiful. Those impossible white-gold curls sticking up wherever they damn well pleased, the faint pinkness currently coloring his pale cheeks, the smiling, proper mouth, the clever, gentle lakewater eyes.

“I love you,” Crowley said, because he couldn’t help it.

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale said back, softly, reaching up to curl a hand around the back of Crowley’s neck.

“You’re going to be a star,” Crowley informed him, the truth of the matter filling him with pride and fear in equal measure. 

_Aziraphale’s not some idiot in his twenties,_ argued that fierce, kind voice in his head which sounded so much like Anathema. _He’s not going to drop you at the first mention of fame and fortune._

“You’re going to be a star, Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated, working his tongue more hopefully around the words, finding them less sour in his mouth.

Aziraphale craned his face upwards to kiss Crowley on the mouth.

“If I’m a star,” Aziraphale mused as he descended. “It’s because you made me one.”

_Fuck, you idiot. Don’t start crying._

“Crowley the Starmaker,” Aziraphale smiled. 

“I didn’t make you anything, angel,” Crowley shook his head. “I just taught you silly improv games.”

“You made me realize I had things I wanted to say,” Aziraphale held firm. “I had things I wanted to say and I mostly wanted you to hear them.”

Crowley rolled over onto his side and curled up against Aziraphale, nestling his head against Aziraphale’s chest, marveling at his steady heartbeat. Crowley knew his own was thumping a mile a minute, all furious syncopation and no reason. 

“I hear you loud and clear, angel,” Crowley murmured. “You can tell me anything.”

“Can I ask you something, my dear?”

“Anything. Always.”

“Does it bother you that I… well, that I rather alluded to you onstage tonight? I realize now I didn’t ask for permission ahead of time.”

Crowley thought about it. Aziraphale’s onstage mention of a new (fuck) _boyfriend_ had seemed like such a seamless, practiced part of the set, it hadn’t even really landed on Crowley that he was the one being discussed.

“So long as you always let the audience know how staggeringly handsome I am,” Crowley decided.

“Well, it’s only a ten minute set tomorrow night, dear. I don’t know if I’ll have quite enough time.”

Crowley groaned. “ _Corny._ ”

“99 corns walk into a bar. The barkeep says, ‘We don’t serve corn here.’ The corn says, ‘Well, your supervisor is going to get an ear full from us in the morning.’”

“You’re ridiculous.”

They settled into a comfortable, near-sleepy silence, lying there together on the floofy hotel bed. Crowley’s mind wandered back to Aziraphale’s set, reliving the thrill of each punchline. 

“Hey,” Crowley shot up suddenly, remembering something else.

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Your ex was an arsehole, you know that, right?”

Aziraphale blinked as he gazed up at Crowley. “I do know that.”

“Okay, good,” Crowley frowned. “I won’t ever tell you not to do what makes you happy, angel.”

“I know that, too, Crowley. I promise.”

“Even…” Fuck, the possibility was suddenly hot and ferocious in Crowley’s throat, making his voice hoarse.

“Even what, darling?” Aziraphale’s eyes began to shine with confusion.

“Even,” Crowley growled. “Even if you being happy takes you away from me. I won’t ever get in your way, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale sat up sharply. “Crowley-”

“Wait,” Crowley held up his hands. “I need you to know that I mean it, Aziraphale. If… fuck, if Gabriel Fucking Horne or some other bigshot comes calling for you… you can go. You should go. You’re talented and brilliant and you should get to explore that to the ends of the universe, okay?”

The smile faded from Aziraphale’s face, his mouth set and stubborn. “We’re a team now, Crowley.”

“I had my chance already, angel,” Crowley insisted. “No one wants me anymore.”

“I want you, you idiot.”

“I want you too! That isn’t what this is about! Promise me, Aziraphale.”

“Absolutely not. You’re the one being ridiculous now.”

“I am not!” Agitated, Crowley slid off the bed, working his fingers through his hair. “You’re just being stubborn. Aziraphale, do you understand what’s at stake here?”

“Crowley, you’re rather leaping to conclusions, I think,” Aziraphale’s voice remained steady and certain, and it drove Crowley mad. “I’ve done well at one night of one comedy festival. I hardly expect a ticket to Hollywood to fall into my lap tomorrow morning.”

“This business moves fast, angel,” Crowley warned. “There’s no telling what might happen tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap. “I’ll wake up beside you. And you’ll take me to breakfast. And we’ll move forward from there.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley pleaded. “Promise me.”

“I categorically refuse,” Aziraphale looked down at his hands. 

“Promise me you won’t ever let me stand in your way.”

“Is that what Fred was to you?” Aziraphale asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Standing in your way?”

The words weren’t a clean knife through Crowleys’ heart, but something much more mangled and jagged. 

“What are you trying to say, Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice sounded alien in his own ears. It sounded like a voice from long ago. A sneering, sinister whisper looking for a fight. He thought he’d left that voice behind.

 _Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it?_ That same ugly voice coiled around Crowley’s brain. _You leave things behind._

Aziraphale had gotten to his own feet now, looking at Crowley, his eyes sad and fearful and something else. The bed felt impossibly vast between them. 

“I’m not…” Aziraphale fumbled for his words.

“What?” Crowley snapped. “Not what, Aziraphale? Not like me?”

“Please don’t put words in my mouth, Crowley.”

“Isn’t that what I’ve always done? Thought you had nothing to say before me.”

Because Anthony J. Crowley knew how to craft a sentence not just to land a punchline, but also to land a blow. There was a horrible, disgusting satisfaction in his guts at the immediacy of the stung look on Aziraphale’s beautiful face.

 _That’s right, demon,_ cooed the awful voice. _Let it all out. Stop pretending. Stop hiding who you are._

But before Crowley could say another terrible word, Aziraphale was walking calmly towards the door. When his hand touched the handle, Aziraphale turned back to him.

“This doesn’t change how I feel,” Aziraphale spoke purposefully, slowly, as though he was working hard to keep breathing steadily. “But I won’t be spoken to that way by anyone anymore. Not even by you. I think I will go have some champagne in the lobby. Please don’t follow me.”

He was out the door before Crowley could say another word. Crowley stood there, frozen, not breathing, not blinking, eyes fixed on the emptiness which was once Aziraphale’s joy and his pride. Crowley had sucked it out of the room.

His breath came back to him all at once, and he couldn’t get enough in. He gasped, panicking.

“Fuck,” he gasped, stalking the empty room like the beast he was. “Fuck.”

He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile and rang Anathema. 

No answer.

Crowley rang her again.

No answer.

Crowley rang her seventeen more times, fingers shaking against the keys.

No answer.

He finally sat back down on the bed and curled his hands over his knees, shutting his eyes tightly. He conjured Aziraphale’s voice in his head, even though it hurt, even though it brought embarrassed, angry tears to his strange eyes.

 _This doesn’t change how I feel._ Aziraphale had said. 

Crowley remembered all the times he’d ever bombed onstage. Of times pouring his heart and work out to an audience only to be met with jeers or, worse, silence. 

_What would you tell your students about that?_ wondered the kind-Anathema voice in his head. 

“I would tell them,” Crowley said out loud, feeling ridiculous. “To not blame the audience. To take a deep breath and then to think about what went wrong. How they can do better next time.”

 _Because there’s a next time,_ Anathema-voice pointed out, kindly.

Crowley nodded, tears beginning to spill. 

There’s a next time. 

Crowley breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, Team!


	12. a tale told by an idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes down for a drink in the lobby with Miss Tracey. There, he encounters his first ever "fan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real quick clarification/spoiler: I DO NOT think Crowley and Shadwell are equal in terms of how they treat their objects of affection. But I buy that it's a comparison Tracey might make, given her limited interactions with Crowley so far in this story. Just wanted to give you a heads up!

A voice screamed in Aziraphale’s head as soon as the hotel door clicked shut behind him.

_What are you doing, you great idiot?!_

Aziraphale paused against the door and breathed, giving himself a minute to concoct an answer of which he could feel proud. Which he could believe. 

_I am setting boundaries for myself,_ he thought back, carefully. 

_You’re a bother. You’re ridiculous. He’s going to leave you._

And that was always a possibility, Aziraphale had to admit. But the reality was much simpler: that he loved Anthony J. Crowley, that Anthony J. Crowley had hurt his feelings rather deeply, and that he needed some time and some alcohol before he could continue this particular conversation.

_We can’t give up now,_ he told himself, stubbornly. Because this wasn’t giving up. Not on himself, not on Crowley, not on the promise of the two of them together.

Aziraphale breathed and pulled away from the door.

When he reached the hotel lobby, it was very nearly empty, signalling to Aziraphale how much later in the evening it was than he’d realized. He sighed, suddenly very tired, and made his way in the direction of the lobby bar. 

“Why so glum, dear?” Tracey cooed at him, sympathetically, already reaching for a rather gigantic bottle of booze. “I heard your show tonight was wonderful!”

“Well, it was,” Aziraphale answered, honestly, brightening a tad at the memory. “It was wonderful.”

“So, what is it, then?” Tracey asked as she poured.

Aziraphale groaned as the situation really landed on him, resting his head in his hands. Tracey clucked her tongue as she passed him a full glass.

“Was wondering where that fancy redhead of yours was,” she nodded, knowingly, glittering fingers wrapped around her own glass.

Aziraphale whimpered pitifully in response. (Look, it was his comedy festival debut, and he’d sulk if he wanted to.)

“Men,” Tracey sighed, lifting her glass in a toast.

“Men,” Aziraphale agreed, clinking glasses with her and drinking deeply. 

***

Several more glasses of hooch and a palm reading later, Aziraphale wobbled precariously on his bar stool. He and Tracey were running out of things to toast.

“To your triumphant debut!” Tracey had shouted at one point.

“To your marvelous inn!” Aziraphale had countered.

Finally, nearly out of anything more specific:

“To love!” Aziraphale cried, liquor sloshing out onto the bar. 

“To love!” Tracey agreed, enthusiastically. “You know, dear, I was in love once.”

“Were you?” Aziraphale wanted to know everything.

“Oh, he could be awful sometimes,” Tracey growled at the memory. “Always calling me names, that one was.”

Aziraphale gasped in indignation. “How dare he?!”

“Oh, he doesn’t mean any of it, I don’t think,” Tracey was grinning now, something soft in her eyes.

“That’s hardly an excuse for name calling, Miss Tracey. Whyever would you put up with him?”

“Oh, the same reasons you put up with that tall, cranky one of yours, I expect,” Tracey smiled, knowingly. “Sometimes it’s just enough to know how someone takes their tea, really. Even when they’re being a bit of a bastard.”

Aziraphale smiled himself at that idea, remembering now his procurement of tea for Crowley just a night ago. Something black and spicy. He sipped at his umpteenth drink of the night, fondness and forgiveness blooming in his heart. 

He didn’t hear or notice the sound of the lobby doors opening. 

Aziraphale suddenly became aware of a presence on his right. He felt better, more secure, so he made a bit of a show of huffing before letting Crowley know:

“I’m not quite ready to talk to you yet.”

“I’m gonna have to disagree with that, sunshine.”

The strange voice caught Aziraphale completely off guard and, in his increasingly tipsy state, he very nearly fell from his seat 

“Hello!” he blurted out, blushing at his lack of composure.

“You’re a hard man to track down, did you know that, Aziraphale Fell?” is what the set of straightest, whitest teeth Aziraphale had ever seen wanted to know. “I’ve been calling.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied, lamely. “Well.”

“Relax,” the smile held up two hands and laughed, warmly. “I’m just here as a fan.”

Aziraphale finally allowed himself to take in the sight of the tall, handsome, suited man before him. Tidy, brown hair, grey eyes that looked almost lavender in the hazy lobby lights, and, again, that smile. It would have looked too big on another face, almost predatory, Aziraphale observed. But it appeared to fit this genial man just perfectly.

The phrase “as a fan” suddenly caught up to Aziraphale and he blushed all over again. From behind the bar, Tracey beamed. 

“A fan,” Aziraphale repeated, charmed despite his better wits.

“Your biggest,” the man said, finally taking a seat at the chair beside Aziraphale. He extended a hand. Aziraphale took it somewhat timidly and then nearly gasped at the strength and firmness behind the handshake which followed.

“How about an autograph?” the man clapped his hands together once they were both free again. He reached over the bar for a cocktail napkin and removed a gleaming pen from his own pocket, passing both to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale felt a little dizzy from the liquor and from the idea of having a fan. A sad, slightly bitter thing tugged at his heart as he wished Crowley were here to see this. To see him signing his very first autograph.

“And to whom should I make this out?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Gabriel Horne.”

Aziraphale’s grip on the pen faltered and he looked up sharply. 

“You’re Gabriel Horne?”

“Thought you might recognize the name,” Gabriel grinned wider than ever. “I used to know your buddy Crowley back in the day.”

Aziraphale thought of every awful thing Crowley had ever told him about Gabriel Horne. He couldn’t bring himself to believe any of them could apply to this kind man before him.

_Well, perhaps that was only more of Crowley being insecure,_ whispered a snide, treacherous voice in his head that made him feel a little sick. 

“I caught your act tonight, Aziraphale,” Gabriel went on. “Really excellent stuff.”

Aziraphale just nodded, tongue too tied up with champagne and confusion and guilt.

“Where do you want to go?” Gabriel asked him. 

Over the course of his entire life, people took one glance at Aziraphale Fell and made assumptions as to where he belonged. Or where he didn’t. Not as a leading man or a Shakesperean lover. Inside a little English classroom. Not on the stage of a comedy club.

No one had ever asked him where he wanted to go.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale fought to keep his voice light, fought not to betray too much about what the question had meant to him.

“You should start thinking about it, sunshine. The world’s about to be at your feet.”

“Sunshine” again. What was it about comedy folk and nicknames? 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale replied.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?” Gabriel leaned forward. “Do you want to tour the world? Do you want to be in movies and make millions? Want a sitcom named after you?”

Aziraphale finally felt brave enough to laugh a little at the hyperbole before him. “With all due respect, Mr. Horne-”

“Gabriel.”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale swallowed. “I’ve only done one set at one comedy festival. Isn’t it a bit early to be talking about fame and fortune?”

“Never too early with potential like yours,” Gabriel countered, smooth as anything.

Before Aziraphale could answer, Gabriel was on his feet again. 

“Think about it, Aziraphale,” Gabriel urged. “You’ll love it out in Hollywood. It’s like heaven out there.”

_“Heaven” would be wherever I belong,_ Aziraphale thought to himself with a touch of inebriated melancholy.

Gabriel slid his card across the bar to Aziraphale, flashed his dazzling smile at Tracey, and vanished nearly into thin air. The cozy little lobby felt transformed in his absence, colder somehow. Aziraphale had to work to keep his teeth from clacking together. Tracey leaned forward on the bar, resting on her elbows, and Aziraphale wished he was back home, chatting with Anathema at the Jasmine Cottage.

“I don’t know about that one, love,” Tracey murmured. 

“I don’t either,” Aziraphale said to her, truthfully. 

_Where do you want to go? What do you want?_

Aziraphale winced over his excitement at being asked such questions. He felt as though he was betraying Crowley. He ran his fingers over the finely embossed business card. His heart swelled briefly as he allowed himself the fantasy of standing on a beautiful stage in some wonderful place, performing to a packed-to-the-rafters house. 

_“You should go,” whispered the phantom, miserable Crowley in his brain._

Aziraphale thought of love and of dreams and of belonging and of laughter and of impossible apple-red hair, and he felt entirely overwhelmed.

“Oh,” he whispered under his breath, panic beginning to overtake him. “Fuck.”

Aziraphale tucked the card into his coat pocket and slid out of his chair, surprised when he didn’t wobble at all. Nothing like an exciting, alarming conversation with a Hollywood comedy agent to sober you up, he supposed.

“Go easy on him, love,” Tracey nodded her head at the staircase as she collected Aziraphale’s glasses.

“I will,” Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you for tonight, Miss Tracey.”

“Good night, Mr. Fell.”

“Good night.”

***

Aziraphale slipped into a room which was dark but for one side table lamp. In the dimness, he could just make out the lump of Crowley’s slight frame under the bed covers, coiled up into a ball. 

Aziraphale made his way carefully to the side of the bed and sat down gently. He looked down at Crowley and his heart flipped over in his chest. Even in slumber, Crowley looked a little wrecked over their earlier conversation. His brow was furrowed, his jaw was clenched, his eyes were shut too tightly. Aziraphale placed a hand softly upon one of Crowley’s cheeks.

“Ziraphale,” Crowley muttered, eyes softening just a touch.

“Relax, darling.”

“Can’t.”

“Whyever not?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, love. I’m sorry too.”

“Didn’t do anything, angel.”

Aziraphale thought ruefully of his conversation with Gabriel Horne. 

“Stay right there, Crowley. I’ll be right back.”

In the lamplight, he smoothed a hand over Crowley’s brow, trying to ease the worry lines away. Crowley let out a purposeful exhale of breath and Aziraphale watched with a full heart as his shoulders dropped away from his ears. 

Aziraphale went into the bathroom to ready himself for sleep. He looked into his own eyes in the mirror. 

_Where do you want to go? What do you want?_

Aziraphale took in the sight of the hotel bathroom counter. Of his own side, nearly completely covered in items, but neat and organized. At Crowley’s side, sparser but more haphazard. Aziraphale imagined sharing all future counters with Crowley and had to close his eyes at the avalanche of longing that threatened to overtake him.

Aziraphale didn’t know where exactly he wanted to go. But he knew he wanted to go there with Crowley. And he didn’t know exactly what he wanted, only that he wanted to share it all with Crowley.

Gabriel Horne’s business card felt like a boulder in his pocket. 

_Tomorrow,_ Aziraphale thought, facing himself. _We’ll talk about everything tomorrow._

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so so much for reading and for sticking with this story! I hope it's okay that this was a shorter little update. 
> 
> You're doing great and I hope you're having a wonderful day.


	13. (a brief interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At night, in the dark, in a strange hotel room, Crowley feels some feelings. 
> 
> (With thanks to Cyndi Lauper.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: We brush up against suicidal ideation in this chapter, friends. Go with caution or skip entirely, if you're heart isn't okay with that right now. The next chapter will still make sense plot-wise without having read this one.

_Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you_  
Caught up in circles  
Confusion is nothing new 

**2:17** glared the angry red lights of the clock on the bedside table.

Crowley rolled over in the dark of the quiet hotel room and discovered, in a (for once) not-panicky sort of way, he could not breathe.

Aziraphale was lying beside him. How long he’d been there, Crowley didn’t know. A smile stole over Crowley’s face as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could just make out the shape of Aziraphale, lying on his back, hands folded neatly over the chest which rose and fell so smoothly and evenly with sleep. 

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, fondly. Not to wake Aziraphale. Just because it was true. He was an angel. Asleep, onstage, on Earth, anywhere, anyhow.

I don’t mean to speak for all of us, but, in my experience, there’s this thing that happens sometimes when you love something so much. It starts to _hurt,_ or at least to ache. It starts up deep in the pit of your belly, this terrible, gnawing thing. It floods your bloodstream, it creeps into the beds of your toenails, it hooks a gnarled finger under your chin and whispers into your ear:

_You’re going to fuck this up, (Insert Name Here.)_

_You’re going to fuck this up, Anthony J. Crowley._

Crowley turned away from Aziraphale, lying now on his own back. It did hurt sometimes to look at him. Love is weird and it just hurts sometimes. A million horrible thoughts raced through Crowley’s brain. It felt like a betrayal to Aziraphale that Crowley had ever dreamed of loving someone else before. It felt like a curse on his very capacity to love that he had ever treated sweet Fred the way he had. How many chances do you get at a love like that? How many times are you afforded the opportunity to gaze into eyes that see you exactly as you are and choose to stay with you nevertheless?

Crowley suddenly felt exhausted and old. He felt creaky and broken and fucking sorry for himself. He was so tired of the concept of punishment, especially when it came from himself.

What would it feel like to forgive himself for all his faults, tangible and perceived?

“Unforgivable,” Crowley blinked back thick, stupid nighttime tears. “That’s what I am.”

The familiar cavalcade of furious, cruel thoughts started in on him: _You’re bad you’re a failure you’re a disappointment you’re a disgrace you destroy everything you touch you were never that funny in the first place you only had a chance at success because everyone feels fucking sorry for you you absolute fucking nightmare fuck you why don’t you just save everyone the trouble and--_

Aziraphale punctured the runaway train of Crowley’s self-abuse with a snore which was as mighty as it was completely adorable. Crowley stifled an awful sort of giggle-sob at the sound of it. 

“Ridiculous,” he murmured to himself, tears staining his cheeks. Fuck, when had he started crying this much?

“Ridiculous,” Crowley said again. 

(They both were, really.)

Crowley rolled over to his left and curled up on his side, dragging his mobile off of the little bedside table, hoping the sudden light wouldn’t disturb Aziraphale. 

A series of text messages from Anathema greeted him:

_Hey!! Is everything okay?! I’m sorry I missed your calls, but SOMEBODY has to host the open mic in your absence while you gallivant around with your talented, beautiful BOYFRIEND, you slacker._

_For real, though, is everything okay?_

_Fucking Hell, Crowley, you’re not allowed to call me seventeen times and not respond._

_Call me back. I love you._

_Fuck you. I’m coming over there._

_You’re paying for my room, by the way._

_I love you. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay._

_I love you._

Crowley hugged the device to him like a tiny, hard stuffed animal and tried not to feel terribly ashamed. Of the relief he felt at the knowledge that Anathema would be with them soon. Of the overwhelming joy he felt at the knowledge that at least two creatures loved him. Of the creeping suspicion that maybe you don’t have to do anything to earn love and kindness. It just sort of happens and maybe all you can do is accept it with something like grace.

Crowley managed a reply:

_Hey Starshine. I’m not okay, but I am “okay.” I don’t know if that makes sense. You know what I mean. You probably already read tea leaves about it or some shit._

Send.

Typing…

_I love you too. Thank you._

Crowley stowed the mobile away again and rolled over back in the direction of Aziraphale. It was unendingly wild to him that he might be allowed, even invited to touch this beautiful, strange man. Just then, Crowley dared it, lifting a skinny finger to graze the fabric of Aziraphale’s pyjama-clad shoulder. 

When Aziraphale did not snore in protest, Crowley chanced snuggling up closer against him, pressing his chest and hips into Aziraphale’s side. He nestled his head against that same soft shoulder, breathing at last. 

“I didn’t expect you,” Crowley confessed, rehearsed to the darkness. “I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m fucking terrified.”

Send.

Typing…

“I never want to make you sad,” Crowley whispered, draping an arm carefully over Aziraphale’s waist. 

(Isn’t that the ugly truth of all comedians deep down? The fear that this is all somehow transactional: If I can make you laugh, then I can’t have made you cry?)

“Crowley,” sighed Aziraphale, suddenly, and Crowley froze. Memorized the particulars of that sigh. Because it wasn’t a familiar “Crowley” sigh. Not a sigh of exasperation or frustration. No, it had been like a faint little exhale of cloud-stuff, something soft and wonderful. 

_In his dreams, you see:_ advised the Anathema-voice in Crowley’s head. _In his dreams, you’re there. And he sighs your name like a cloud. Isn’t that lovely?_

Crowley nodded against Aziraphale’s shoulder. It was lovely. 

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said.

“I love you, too, my darling,” came the sleepy reply off to his side. 

“How long have you been awake?”

“Oh, just now, really. Is everything all right?”

_No, _Crowley thought. _But it will be._ __

____“We’ll get there, angel.”_ _ _ _

__

__

__“Oh, marvelous. I’d rather hoped so.”_ _

__Aziraphale unlocked his arm from where it was trapped against Crowley and wiggle-maneuvered it around to embrace him tightly. Crowley welcomed the hold, burrowing himself even closer into Aziraphale._ _

_If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting_

__“Go back to sleep, angel.”_ _

__Miraculously, Aziraphale already was._ _

__**2:42** beamed the clock now. Crowley breathed in deeply, taking along with him the perfume of whatever that specific hotel scent always is, of the lavender and bergamot notes of Aziraphale, and of night itself, clean and infinitely renewable. _ _

__He would try again in the morning._ _

_Time after time_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being here, friends. I still love this story and want to tell it, but times are tough right now. I hope you're doing well. 
> 
> (Also: sorry to spring a songfic chapter on you! I just like them so much.)


	14. with a little help from my friends, or: (i am running out of comedy-related titles, help)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the only way out is through and our heroes have to keep talking about their feelings, and in which there is some wholesome friendship time.
> 
> Or: Saturday night at the End of the World Comedy Festival! Wahoo!!

_Saturday morning, The End of the World Comedy Festival._

Aziraphale awoke to the dearly familiar fragrance of Earl Grey tea and to the increasingly dearly familiar sight of a tall, handsome comedian tearing his fingers through his red hair.

“Look,” Crowley began before Aziraphale could manage so much as a fond _Good Morning._ “Here’s the truth, angel. I’m a disaster and I have been for a scorching-hot fucking minute. But you’re perfect and I love you and I am going to try really hard and I’m sorry for being a fucking idiot yesterday and I brought you tea and I’m sorry they didn’t have any breakfast snacks in the lobby but I can go get those too if you want and and-”

Crowley shrugged his shoulders rather violently, fingers still combing ferociously through his hair. Aziraphale slipped out of the bed and went to him, replacing those angry fingers with his own. 

“You don’t have to bring me tea and a treat everytime I’m upset, you know,” Aziraphale smiled, working some gentleness through the tangled crimson locks before him.

“Of course I do,” Crowley said. “Don’t be stupid.”

Aziraphale kissed him.

“I really am sorry,” Crowley murmured against Aziraphale’s lips, unwilling to pull away. 

“I know you are, my dear,” Aziraphale assured him, winding his fingers now through Crowley’s own and leading him back to the bed. “But I think we need to talk about it a little more.”

Crowley groaned. “Yeah, I worried about that.”

“Thought you could wiggle out of it with some tea, did you?”

“Never thought I could ‘wiggle’ out of anything. Those are completely your words.”

Aziraphale kissed him again. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, shifting so he could hold both of Crowley’s hands now. “I have something important to tell you.”

It struck Aziraphale’s heart how immediately worried Crowley’s golden eyes appeared. As if any news was bad news. As if anything Aziraphale had to tell was surely some great tragedy. 

“Dear heart,” Aziraphale leaned his forehead against Crowley’s. “I promise it’s all right.”

Crowley nodded, but Aziraphale could feel him beginning to shake a little against him. Aziraphale never would have imagined this cocky comedian he’d seen onstage at the 9th Circle Comedy Club months ago could be so full of fear. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley managed a steady breath. “Can I say something stupid?”

“Of course, Crowley.”

“I…” Crowley gritted his teeth, clenched his eyes shut. Aziraphale rubbed over the skin of his hands with his thumbs.

“It’s all right, my love. Tell me.”

“I thought my life was sort of over,” Crowley said, eyes still closed, and Aziraphale’s heart cracked. “I thought I’d had my one chance and I’d royally, monumentally, catastrophically blown it. Thought I’d fucked up and that the rest of life was just… punishment. For all my misdeeds, you know.”

Crowley exhaled again and opened his eyes. He met Aziraphale’s gaze as confidently as he dared, though Aziraphale still felt him shaking.

“I’m going to be better for you,” Crowley growled. “I’m going to do better for you, because of you. I promise.”

Aziraphale brought his hands up to either side of Crowley’s face. “Oh, but that’s just it, my darling. I don’t need you to do or be anything differently. I love you just as you are.”

But Crowley was as stubborn as Aziraphale.

“ _Though for myself alone,_ ” Crowley recited, a touch of defiance in his voice. “ _I would not be ambitious in my wish, To wish myself much better, yet for you, I would be trebled twenty times myself._ ”

Aziraphale gasped. “Did you memorize Shakespeare to woo me?”

“Is it working?”

“Very much so.”

“Good.”

They sat there together, pleased and awkward and in love. Crowley remembered:

“What did you want to tell me, angel?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s heart plummeted a little, recalling the news he had for Crowley. “My dear, you have to promise not to get upset.”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but clicked it shut again. “I promise.”

“Gabriel Horne came to see me last night.”

What happened next is hard to describe: it was as though Crowley’s body was prepared to spring into furious action at the mere mention of Gabriel Fucking Horne, but his heart had made a vow to Aziraphale. So, he sort of managed both? He tightened up into a coil which did not spring, but merely drooped over onto its side on the bed. 

“Uh huh,” he said from his new position. “Yep. Great. Definitely not upset.”

“Crowley…”

“Angel, I told you,” Crowley interrupted, voice full of anguish. “I told you Hollywood was coming to claim you.”

“I don’t want to go to Hollywood.”

What happened next was equally perplexing: Crowley, braced for the worst impact of his entire life up to that point, curled himself up even tighter into a ball, shielding his slight frame, but then… Aziraphale wasn’t leaving? Aziraphale wasn’t leaving him? Crowley’s head shot up in surprise, but he didn’t balance it all quite correctly, so, well…

Crowley rolled off of the bed with a terribly dignified squawk.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale dropped to his knees on the hotel carpet. “Are you all right?”

Crowley just seized him and dragged him bodily down to the floor, speaking only between kisses. “Never. Been. Fucking. Better.”

After a dizzying moment of floor kissing, Crowley yanked himself away. “But wait! No! That’s not right! You can’t just… I don’t know, angel. Settle for me or anything? Is that what this is?”

Aziraphale laughed. “Settling? Oh, my dear, no. Quite the opposite. I have plans to ride your mildly famous coattails to fame and fortune.”

Crowley glowed and then frowned.

“Hang on… ‘mildly famous?’”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale ignored the comment. “I thought my life was a little over too. I didn’t know what I wanted, because I think I was too afraid to dare to want anything. But I know now. I want to perform and I want to be with you. And I believe the world is vast enough in its possibilities that we might make all that work. Hollywood isn’t the only option, darling.”

Crowley looked a little gloriously shattered at that assessment. He wiggled (don’t mention it) up to his knees, grasping Aziraphale’s hands in his.

“Aziraphale, will you-”

There was an extremely enthusiastic knock on the door.

“We didn’t order anything!” Crowley shouted in the direction of the door.

“Like Hell you didn’t, you nightmare!” hollered a familiar voice on the other side.

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, who was now blushing horribly as he remembered.

“You called Anathema, my dear?”

“I was having a nervous breakdown,” Crowley admitted, getting to his feet. “Of fucking course I called Anathema.”

“Oh, it will be delightful to have her here!” Aziraphale clapped his hands together.

Before he made his way to the door, Crowley turned and kissed Aziraphale fiercely, joyfully.

“I promise I won’t ask again,” Crowley said, quickly. “Because I trust you. But this… me… this is what you want, angel?”

“Terribly so,” Aziraphale confirmed.

Crowley grinned and opened the door. He was not prepared for what he found there. 

“Fucking fuck, Anathema,” Crowley groaned.

“You texted me during open mic night!” Anathema chided him. “They were all worried about you!”

“Hello,” Newt said, pleasantly. Hastur and Ligur just grunted.

“Are you all right?” Anathema asked softly and reached out to touch Crowley’s shoulder.

“I think so, actually,” Crowley said, eyes darting over to Aziraphale’s face.

Anathema smiled. “I knew you would be.”

“We can’t hear anything you’re saying!” Ligur complained loudly. 

“Breakfast?” Anathema sparkled. “I’m excited to drink coffee I didn’t make.”

“Breakfast,” Aziraphale nodded, beaming.

It was the sort of moment which was happening increasingly lately. The sort of moment Crowley wished he could freeze and tuck into his pocket forever. In a hotel room, his notebook full of new jokes, surrounded by people who- fuck- cared about him.

Holding hands with Aziraphale Fell.

 _But this isn’t just a fleeting moment, Tony,_ Crowley imagined Anathema saying as she smiled at him, probably reading his bloody thoughts. 

_This is your life now._

Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s hand, trusting it would be there whenever he needed it from now on.

“All right, you maniacs,” Crowley drawled, feeling more like myself than he ever had. “Breakfast. I’m buying.”

“Damn right you are,” Hastur agreed.

“Wait!” Anathema pounced into the doorway, holding them all up.

“What?” Crowley snapped.

“We have to commemorate this moment,” Anathema declared. “Proof that we’re friends outside of comedy class.”

Fuck, maybe she really could read minds.

“Snuggle up!” she instructed, holding her mobile out in front of her.

When Crowley printed out and framed that selfie later (shut up), he would be most surprised by the ease of his own smile.

***

“So, Aziraphale, how did last night go? Tell us everything.”

They were crowded around their table at the breakfast spot, elbows and knees knocking. It was okay, they’re friends.

“He was brilliant, of course,” Crowley answered Anathema’s question, leaning back proudly.

“Obviously,” Anathema rolled her eyes. “But I want Aziraphale to tell it!”

“Well,” Aziraphale placed his tea cup down delicately. “I was sort of brilliant, I suppose.”

They all clapped and cheered at their friend’s confidence in himself, and Crowley leaned over to kiss Aziraphale on the cheek. 

They laughed and talked all through breakfast and Anathema filled them in how open mic night had gone in their absence and Newt held her hand while she told them and it was all rather lovely. 

As Crowley signalled for the check, a tall figure in a nice suit appeared at their table.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel Horne smiled broadly. “A little early in your career for an entourage, isn’t it?”

“These are my friends,” Aziraphale explained, determined to let nothing puncture his immense joy. 

“Best thing about Hollywood,” Gabriel chortled. “You can buy as many friends as you want.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow and Hastur and Ligur looked immediately murderously. (Newt, bless him, was entirely unprepared for conflict of any kind, but he would have certainly backed them up in his own way.)

“Mr. Horne,” Aziraphale began.

“Please, Aziraphale, sunshine!” Gabriel laughed again. Crowley’s jaw tightened at “sunshine,” but he let it go. “Gabriel, remember?”

“Yes, well, Gabriel,” Aziraphale continued. “I’ve thought a great deal about your generous offer and I’ve chosen to decline. Terribly sorry.”

For the first time, Gabriel’s smile faltered. “Excuse me?”

“He said he’s not interested,” Crowley hissed, unable to contain himself any longer. “Beat it.”

Hastur and Ligur agreed with a crack of their knuckles.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel ignored them. “You can’t just _turn down_ Hollywood. It’s what every comedian wants!”

“I,” Aziraphale took a calm sip of his tea. “Am not every comedian.”

Anathema punched the air like it was a fucking 80’s movie.

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life, sunshine,” Gabriel snarled, ugliness clouding those fine features.

And they were all on their feet at that, even Newt.

“He doesn’t want to go,” Anathema’s hands were on her hips. 

“I do look forward to seeing you at the festival tonight, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, kindly. “But I’m quite done discussing business at the moment.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and Gabriel absorbed the moment with disgust on his face.

“Well, I guess I know whose fault this is,” he grimaced.

Crowley grinned as Aziraphale waved.

Gabriel Horne stalked away. Crowley spun around to face Aziraphale.

“Angel, you _sure?_ I mean-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale stopped him, firmly. “If there was just the one path to happiness, none of us would ever get there, would we?”

Crowley groaned. “Did you read that in a greeting card, angel?”

Aziraphale kissed him. (Aziraphale was always going to kiss him, you see.)

Anathema wriggled in between them and slung her arms over both of their shoulders.

“Come on, lovebirds,” she squeezed them, playfully. “Aziraphale still has a show to do tonight.”

He did, you know.

***

_Saturday night._

(A bit of a spoiler for you, my friends, and I hope you won’t feel cheated by this brevity:

Aziraphale would perform on many more stages after this one. He wasn’t always brilliant, it’s hard for any comic to do all the time. We all muck it up sometimes. 

But this night? This perfect night, filled with a confidence he’d never known before, surrounded by the people he loved most in the world?

Aziraphale Fell fucking killed it.)

“My dear friends, I’ve been Aziraphale Fell, good night!”

Instead of retreating backstage, Aziraphale hopped right off the center of the stage and strode directly into Crowley’s arms as the crowd cheered.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted over the applause. “I have to ask you something!”

“Anything!” Aziraphale yelled back.

Crowley shoved his hand into his pocket and Aziraphale gasped. It couldn’t be…

Crowley pulled out his old, torn-up notebook.

“Aziraphale Fell,” Crowley’s entire face shone. “Will you write a comedy show with me?”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, his hands flew to his heart.

Partners. They were going to be partners. In joke telling and maybe everything else. 

“A thousand times yes!”

There, at the End of the World, Aziraphale and Crowley held each other and kissed in triumph. Because they had faced down hecklers and insecurities and hotshot agents and what felt like a million other impossible foes, and they were still standing. 

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, dear friends! I think it's about time to wrap this one up, so I promise you a final chapter soon with lots of kissing and something of an epilogue. I have really, really loved telling this story and it means the world to me you would read it. There are still so many places I think these characters could go and I hope maybe I can revisit them someday. In the immediate future, though, I'm ready to move on for a bit. 
> 
> I hope you're having a wonderful day!


	15. tip your waiters, or: good night, everybody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our story comes to an end and there is some kissing and an epilogue.

“A show? With me? _Really?_ ”

Fuck, Aziraphale was radiant when he was delighted.

“I can’t go back to writing jokes just for me,” Crowley confessed as they strolled arm in arm back to the hotel, Anathema having helpfully already shooed everyone else away. “It’s more fun with you, angel.”

“A two person show!” Aziraphale wiggled happily as they walked. “I’ll be damned!”

Crowley just grinned. He was going to write a comedy show with his boyfriend. He hadn’t dreamed such happiness was even possible.

“For the stage or for the screen?” Aziraphale wanted to know. 

“Well, you are the Shakespeare expert, so I was picturing the stage,” Crowley said, bringing Aziraphale’s hand up for a kiss.

“Can we start writing tonight?”

“Yes and no,” Crowley answered.

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, we’ll write, angel,” Crowley explained. “But it’s also the first night I’ve been able to kiss you without feeling like I’m going to have a massive anxiety attack in the middle of it, so I’d like to take advantage, if that’s all right with you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale blushed, happily. “Yes. That, please.”

Tracey had a bottle of champagne waiting for them when they made it into the lobby. 

“Congratulations, love,” she hugged Aziraphale before fixing her eyes a bit sternly on Crowley.

“Be a dear now, Mr. Crowley,” Tracey advised. “Fellows like this don’t come around every lifetime, you know.”

“I know,” Crowley promised.

“Good,” Tracey smiled.

They made it up to their hotel room with the one bed at which point the bottle of champagne was well and thoroughly ignored.

“I love you,” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley placed increasingly fervent kisses upon his throat.

“I believe you,” Crowley responded. He promised deep down in his heart that night to never doubt it again. 

_Doubt thou the stars are fire,_ as they say, after all. 

***

_Something like an epilogue:_

Eventually, when they stopped kissing long enough to have a real discussion on the matter, Aziraphale remembered (always) the first time he’d seen Crowley onstage. Remembered his material about being a demon in Hell. Aziraphale remembered thinking up his own very rudimentary material about what it might be like to be an angel instead.

“Yes!’ Crowley nodded, scribbling fiercely in the tattered notebook. “I mean, I already call you ‘angel,’ so it won’t be hard to remember onstage…”

“And what if I’m always trying to thwart your wicked ways?” Aziraphale went on, hands cutting through the air in his enthusiasm.

“Ah, but,” Crowley grinned up at Aziraphale, a little of that wickedness gleaming in his eyes. “What if we have some sort of Arrangement, you and I? We get lazy, maybe, and sometimes I do all the good stuff and you do all the bad.”

Aziraphale gaped. “I would never! I am a servant of the Lord!”

“Aziraphale, you would sell your soul for the right slice of cake,” Crowley countered only to be rewarded with a pillow to the head. 

“An Arrangement, though…” Aziraphale had to hand it to Crowley. “That would certainly be an interesting narrative device.”

“We’d have been around for all of history, meddling and getting up to nonsense!” Crowley shook out his aching fingers.

“Oh, we can have _costume changes._ ”

“As many as you want, angel.”

They wrote all through the night. And the next and the next and the next.

When they got back home, they performed a version of the show for the first time on the little stage of the 9th Circle as part of a double bill with Anathema. Anathema had worked out her own one-woman show, “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies.” Crowley still loved to perform, but he loved watching audiences respond to Aziraphale and to Anathema more than he’d ever loved receiving those accolades for himself.

In fact, if you asked Crowley what he did in those days, he would have told you, “I make stars.”

Because he did. 

While they workshopped their show together, Crowley continued to teach intro to stand-up at the club just as Aziraphale retired. He’d miss his students, he knew, but he was looking forward to spreading his love of literature in a different capacity.

You see, he’d bought a bookshop.

Aziraphale bought an old bookshop filled to bursting with every wonderful sort of story and Crowley built him a little stage in the basement so they could start hosting their own open mic nights. Not just for comedy. Storytelling, music, play readings, poetry… Words and stories would always have a home onstage at A.Z. Fell’s. 

And Aziraphale and Crowley moved together into the little flat above the shop. A little flat which they eventually rented out from time to time as they were so busy off on tour. “Good Omens,” as they’d taken to calling their little show, was really becoming something of a hit on the Fringe circuit. 

They returned to Edinburgh eventually, of course, where Tracey was delighted to see them. And, on the night when they won the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Aziraphale dropped to a knee right there onstage and asked Anthony J. Crowley to marry him. 

Anathema, Newt, Hastur, and Ligur were in the audience, because of course they were.

***

_Saturday, sometime later._

The day was just beginning when Anthony J. Crowley woke up. Sunshine streamed in through some awfully nice curtains and birds chirped happily just outside. Yes, it was still morning when Anthony J. Crowley woke up. Still, Aziraphale had beaten him to it.

“Good morning, my dear,” Aziraphale said to Crowley.

“Good morning,” Crowley said to Aziraphale.

Crowley rolled over onto his side and retrieved his mobile from their nightstand. He flicked, of course, to Twitter where the love was steadily pouring in for @goodomens_tour.

“Thanks, Hastur,” Crowley grinned at the little heart on the screen.

Aziraphale sat down on the bed with two cups of tea and passed one to Crowley. “Goodness, we are something of a hit, aren’t we?”

“You bet your wings, angel.”

“They loved us in America.”

“‘Course they did! They love us everywhere.”

“Well, then,” Aziraphale’s eyes glimmered as he fixed them on his partner. “Whereto next, darling?”

Crowley held out his tea cup in a toast.

“To the world.”

Aziraphale smiled and laughed. It’s sort of funny, having your dreams come true in ways you never for a moment expected. 

“To the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FRIENDS. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. I cannot tell you what your comments and kindnesses have meant to me. Thank you for following this story! I hope, when the world makes sense again, we can all go tell some jokes together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for being here! This story has become very near and dear to my goofy heart, and I'm thrilled to share it with you. 
> 
> I'm [waywarder](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/waywarder) on Tumblr.


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